


Requited Love

by Mellkat86



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feelings Realization, Gen, Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellkat86/pseuds/Mellkat86
Summary: *Regency AU* Lord Gaston Saffroy, a Baron, has been courting Lady Belle for six months and everyone is convinced, he’s going to be asking her father, Lord Maurice French, a Viscount, for her hand in marriage on his next visit. During Gaston’s visit, Lord Rumford Gold, Earl of the Frontlands, arrives un-expectantly, requiring accommodation, while he’s in the area on business. Lady Belle tries her best to avoid Gaston’s advances and marriage proposal, even if it means she has to broker a deal with a man she barely knows.
Relationships: Belle & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 48
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any suggestions or helpful criticism is welcomed. This is my first AU, where it’s set in the regency era, not overly sure on some details. I’m not sure, how often I will be updating this one, as I am currently working on another fic, ‘The Dance of Love’, which ideally I wanted to get done first but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to get this written down. Hope you enjoy and stay with me until the end.

The sun shone brightly in through the window, like it did every afternoon, when Belle was perched on the windowsill seat, reading whatever book had recently tickled her fancy. She should’ve been downstairs, making preparations and organising the house for Gaston’s visit, but if she’d had any say in the matter, she would’ve refused his visit. He was handsome, tall and strong, and idolised by everyone - men and women. Belle could see his appeal and probably would’ve fell for him, if he had stayed at a distance. She rolled her eyes, remembering the way he had swaggered over to her, a sickly grin on his face, and had taken her hand, placed a light kiss to her knuckles, peering up at her. The innocent gesture had made her skin crawl. Then, he had opened his mouth, his arrogance and vanity obvious, and had instantly repulsed her. Etiquette dictated, she had to smile and make small talk with him. Be pleasant with him, even though she had wanted to excuse herself and find a quiet corner to read a book. And now, six months later, she was harassed nearly daily with his letters, subjected to two monthly visits from him, with the dooming inevitable of a marriage proposal.

Letting out a disheartened sigh, Belle lowered her book to rest in her lap, her gaze drawn to look out at the luscious green fields, surrounding the house. She could see her younger self, out in the fields, running carefree, playing with the children of the servants. Those days were not so long ago, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Yet, the passing of her mother, felt like it had only happened yesterday. The bun at the back of her head, cushioned her as she rested her head back against the wall. Thinking of her mother always made Belle a little weepy. The grief and guilt, harboured in her heart, had not eased since her mother’s passing, six years ago. She doubted it ever would. Nothing could ease the regret, she associated with that fateful day, when her mother had done the most bravest deed: sacrificing herself for her own daughter.

It could’ve been any summer day, as they had strolled the coastal path, coming back from their picnic on the nearby beach. Belle had skipped ahead of her mother, ignoring the pleads of her mother, to slow down and wait for her. Naively, she had called for her mother to hurry up, not adhering to her mother’s call to slow down and instead, had dashed further ahead. She had scurried over the step in the fence, and had caught the hem of her dress under her foot, in her hast to get back to the house, and had fallen into a heap on the ground. Laughing it off, Belle had gotten to her feet and was brushing off the dirt on her skirt, when a strong pair of hands had grabbed her and had forced her back to the fence, using their body to prevent her escape.

“What do we have ‘ere?” Had asked a malicious voice.

Taken aback, Belle had grasped at the man’s coat, wide eyed, as she had tried to comprehend what was happening to her. Forcefully, he had taken a hold of her chin, further pinning her back, pushing her head back to be shrouded by the bush behind her. He was taller than her, towering over her. His face was weathered, deep lines drawn into his skin, and his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunken into his face. She’d never forget the smell of him - sweat, stale ale and god knows what else, had been a heavier presence than his body had been, pinning her to the fence. Just thinking about him, Belle would’ve sworn he was in the room with her.

To that day, Belle couldn’t answer the question as to why she hadn’t screamed for help. It wouldn’t have taken much. She wanted to give a reason. God knows, she had more than once, berated herself for a reason. A loud scream would have alerted the workers in the nearby fields. Be such a strange occurrence, they would’ve come to investigate, like they had done, when they’d heard the heart wrenching cry.

His eyes had leered down at the small amount of cleavage her dress revealed. An appreciative grin had drawn back the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t until his gaze flicked up, from her chest to her face, Belle’s comprehension of the danger she had been in, had dawn on her. Shoving at his shoulders, kicking at his shins, Belle had tried to fight him off, but had froze at the familiar clicking sound of a pistol being cocked. The wide barrel of the pistol had come into view then, pointing directly into Belle’s face.

“Now, now, enough of that.” the man had chided her. “The less you struggle, the sooner it’ll be over.”

Belle had opened her mouth, desperate to scream for help, yet no sound had left her mouth. Not even a squeak as he had forced her mouth open, with his rough hand holding her chin. Nothing, even as his hard lips had covered hers, had forced his tongue into her mouth, invading her mouth with the putrid taste of him.

There had been a rustle, a clunk of a boot and a small groan of effort, before the man had torn his lips away from Belle, startled by her mother’s shout. “Get your hands off my daughter!”

Her mother hadn’t waited for the man to do as she had instructed. She had launched the small picnic basket at him, hitting him in the side of the head, whilst the contents of the basket scattered on the ground. After that point, what happened was a fog to Belle. She knew, there’d been a struggle. The bruises and the tear in her dress had been evidence of it. What she couldn’t remember, was how her mother had gotten herself into a position, to protect Belle and ward off the stranger.

Closing her eyes, Belle breathed through the pain of the memory and held a hand to her chest, nursing the dull ache of her heart, as she neared the tragic point of the tale. The moment where her life had changed forever. The moment where the man had raised the pistol, aiming the wide barrel at her mother, who was guarding her daughter, arms spread out wide to keep anyone from getting to her. Her mother had not shied away and had stared down the barrel of the pistol, fiercely meeting the gaze of her daughter’s attacker.

_**Bang!** _

Belle didn’t know what startled her more: the pistol going off or her mother’s weight slumping back onto her, forcing Belle to catch her mother and drop down onto her knees. For a moment, the man had held Belle’s attention, scrambling to get over the fence, she had not long ago climbed over, blissfully unaware what had waited for her on the other side. She had heard him run, the thrashing of the long grass and the pounding of feet as he fled, desperate to escape.

It was the warmth, which drew her attention down to her mother, lifeless in her arms, her head slumped awkwardly against Belle’s chest. Frowning at her mother, Belle had unhooked an arm from under her mother and had reached out, tentatively, to touch the small, bright red mark on the front of her mother’s gown. She had snatched her fingers back, shocked by the warmth. Her gaze had been divided, between looking at her mother’s face, the red warm blood on her fingertips and the slowly growing stain on her mother’s chest. The warmth in her lap spread, oozing over her thighs and down to her knees, giving her a morbid sense of comfort.

Absorbing the facts in front of her, the comprehension of what had happened, slowly clawed its way to the forefront. Her bloody fingers had returned to the ever expanding mark on her mother’s chest. Cooler to the touch, than it had been seconds before. Belle had started to shake her head, refusing to accept the truth, while she had vainly shook her mother.

“Mother?” She had called gently, not wanting to startle her mother. _Nothing._

Belle had grabbed a handful of her mother’s dress, using the leverage to shake her mother harder. “Mother?!”

_Nothing._

“MOTHER!” She had screamed at the top of her lungs and had collapsed forward, cradling her mother’s face to her bosom, and had repeatedly whispered ‘ _no_ ’, fiercely refusing to accept the truth.

A single tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, streaming a cold path down to her jaw. Before it could reach her jawline, Belle swept it away, brushing it off as she let out a quiet sniffle. Crying never brought her mother back, nor did it make her feel better. It had only made her feel weak, reminding her of the feeble girl she had been, too frightened to fight back and cry out for help. Carrying the burden, that if she had done something, anything, there was a chance her mother could still be alive. Not buried six feet under on the small island, protected by the lake, located on the south side of the estate. Her mother would’ve been here, stood just inside her doorway, commanding her to come and help with the preparations for receiving Gaston.

Belle leaned forward, away from the wall, and touched a hand to her forehead, soothing the shallow lines of her brow. Easing out a breath, she turned her head, as she stroked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, to look out the window again, lowering her gaze to the servants below on the patio and in the gardens. They were all hard at work, carrying out their tasks with the utmost care and attention. It was the lady of the house, who had no care for preparing for their visitor.

There was a sharp knock at the door before it opened. Marking her place in her book, by laying a ribbon between the pages, Belle shifted on the window seat to face the door. Ruby, her handmaiden, entered, looking back into the hallway, and closed the door behind her. Laying her book onto the seat beside her, Belle clasped her hands in her lap, as Ruby hurried across the library to Belle.

“Your father is looking for you.” Ruby informed her.

“What does he want?” Belle asked as she stood up, readjusting herself and flattening out her skirt.

Ruby knelt down, to tidy Belle’s skirt, as she said. “I don’t know. Maybe he's interested to know how the preparations are going? You remember, Gaston, that hunk of a man, who's been giving you googly eyes for months? Due to arrive this evening?”

“How could I forget?” She dryly retorted.

“Any other woman would be throwing themselves at his feet.” Ruby stated as she stood up and straightened her own skirt, saying. “You, you’re too busy with your nose in a book.”

Rolling her eyes at Ruby, Belle lifted her skirt and started towards the door, commenting over her shoulder. “The man is insufferable.”

“That he might be, but I’m sure this visit, he’s going to be asking your father for your hand in marriage. Then you won’t be able to avoid him, once he’s your husband.” Ruby followed Belle to the door.

Clutching the doorknob in her hand, Belle paused to take a breath and prayed, her gaze on the ceiling above her head. “God help me.”

“He’s not going to help you. He’s going to be bestowing his blessing on your union.” Ruby said, placing a hand on Belle’s shoulder.

“Shut up.” Belle scolded, yanking open the door, and left the library with Ruby in tow.

Swooshing out into the hallway, Belle glanced back over her shoulder to Ruby, giving her friend a rueful smile as Ruby closed the library door behind them. Ruby never took offence. The two of them were more like sisters, than they were master and servant. They had never been without the other. From childhood to womanhood, they had been inseparable. Much to the dismay of Belle’s father, who frowned upon her fraternising with the servants. With their estate, a far distance from any other noble families, it had only been natural that she had played with the servants' children.

Her mother hadn’t minded it. She had encouraged it, by including the servants’ children whenever they played games, had storytime and had even taught the children with Belle. It was probably why, so many of those children had stayed, taking up positions in the household, remaining loyal to the family. Grateful to the kindness her mother had always shown them.

“Where is she?!” Came a thunderous shout from down the hallway, interrupting Belle’s thoughts.

A glance back at Ruby, the pair hitched up their skirts and broke out into a run, hurrying down the hallway and the next to the grand staircase. Ruby easily kept up with Belle. She was taller and definitely had a longer stride with her long legs, but Belle had always been able to keep up with her friend. Playfully, Ruby shoved Belle aside, gaining a minuscule amount of distance. Belle grinned and increased her efforts. They were nearing the end of the hallway. Pushing herself that bit more, raising her skirt higher, Belle caught up with Ruby. They chuckled, breathlessly, as they got to the end of the hallway and came out onto the landing of the grand staircase.

The upper landing wrapped itself around the room, with a staircase down to the foyer below, wide enough for five people to walk easily up the stairs together. Large paintings of descendants and picturesque landscapes decorated the walls. Belle’s own portrait hung near the top of the stairs, located beside the very large portrait of her parents, hung in the direct path of anyone’s eyesight as they climbed the stairs.

“What the hell is that ruckus up there?” The voice boomed from below and then asked again. “And where is she? Where’s Belle?”

“I’m here, father!” Belle called out, leaning daringly over the banister, so he could see her from below.

Maurice titled his head back, his cheeks were red with frustration. “Where’ve you been? You better not have been in the library!”

She gaped her mouth at her father, feigning she was hurt with a hand to her chest, telling him. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing father. Not with Gaston arriving this evening.”

“What were you doing then?” He asked, his gaze followed her along the landing to the top of the stairs, his fists sternly posed on his hips.

Belle started to descend the stairs as she said. “I was selecting a dress for tonight, father.” She then scoffed at him. “You wouldn’t want Gaston to see me in the same dress again? Whatever would he think?”

He raised an eyebrow in thought as his stance relaxed. “No… We wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea.”

Risking a glance back at Ruby, who was a couple of steps behind her, Belle shrugged her eyebrows at her friend, knowing she had averted a scolding from her father. She stepped off the last step as her father dropped his hands to his sides, forgetting his reason for being so annoyed with her.

“Has everything been taken care of?” Her father asked.

“I believe so.” Her dress swished over the floor, whilst she looked to Ruby to see her nod her head, and turned back to say to her father. “Everyone knows what to do, father. It’s all in hand.” And smiled reassuringly at him.

Maurice took a hold of the lapels of his jacket and his left thumb caressed the fabric, a nervous habit of his, as he said. “Hopefully, things will go well, my dear, and he’ll be asking for your hand by the end of his visit.”

“Papa,” Belle closed the space between them, reaching out to still his thumb with a gentle touch to his hand. “Let’s not worry about such things. We’ve got the next few days ahead of us and I foresee the weather will be fine.”

“He’ll ask, Belle.” He told her, taking a hold of her hand that had stilled his thumb.

“And if he does, we’ll deal with it then. But right now,” She smiled at him. “I need to go and organise what we’ll be having for dinner.” A gentle touch to his face and Belle rushed away from him, heading to the hallway leading to the kitchen.

Her eyes burgled at the thought of Gaston’s marriage proposal. The thought of marrying him, being with him until her dying breath, giving him her virtue, was daunting. She was not naive to think, she would ever marry someone in the name of love. It was not her place to fall in love with someone. That was the liberty of those, who had been given a choice in such matters.

For Belle, she had always known, she would be treated like a piece of property, sold off to the highest bidder. She had heard the flutter of ‘love at first sight’, but that was fanciful thinking. The best Belle had ever hoped for, was that she would be matched with someone, who was intelligent and had an interest in books. Giving them something, they could share with each other and discuss. Then, hopefully, given time, she could develop a fondness for them, grown from their mutual love of books. This was why, she doubted very much, she’d ever be fond of Gaston in any way possible: the man was a buffoon in gentleman’s clothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumford is travelling with companion, Jefferson, when they get into trouble with their carriage.

The carriage rocked rhythmically from side to side, unsettling one occupant of the carriage, whilst the other sat relaxed, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, enjoying the relaxing sway of the carriage. Rumford could hear his companion, Jefferson, grumbling under his breath. He wasn’t even sure why Jefferson had opted to come with him, when the man hated travelling by carriage. The man enjoyed his creature comforts too much, whereas Rumford couldn’t care less about them, having already lived a portion of life with nothing. The only things Rumford needed was a roof over his head, a fire and place to lay his head. At one time though, he hadn’t even had those until fate had stepped in, changing his life forever.

Rumford had been born into nothing. 

His parents had been looked down upon by the poor. They had been shunned into living in a shack, far from the outskirts of the village. His mother had died from complications from giving birth. He held no great affection for her, just an acknowledgement she had given him life. Maybe if his father hadn’t taken to beating his frustrations into his son, punishing him for something that wasn’t his fault, Rumford may have had more empathy for the woman. It hadn’t been his fault his mother died. It hadn’t been his fault, his father had been useless and had tried to swindle people out of their hard earned coin, after they had laboured in the fields all day. No, he had no love for either of his parents, just an acceptance that they had given him life.

He couldn’t remember how old he had been, when they had been forced to move on by the villagers. Tired of his father’s swindling, a mob had invaded their shack, throwing out their things, what little they had had, and had set fire to the shack, preventing them from returning. Rumford at times, could still feel the tenacity of the fire on his face. He had never known a heat like it before. Acclimatised to living mostly in the cold, it had been a shell shock to his young self, to feel such a heat. Something, thankfully, his own son took for granted. 

His father had pretended everything was fine, performing the worst scam on himself. Rumford had gleefully eaten up the story his father had told. That the villagers had only been seeing them off and had burnt down their shack to bless them with luck on their journey.

‘ _Yes,’_ he thought, lulling his head back. ‘ _a blessing in disguise’._

They’d travelled for weeks on foot, sleeping in barns and stealing food wherever they could. He wasn’t sure how they had ended up at the Earl’s manor. Though, he could distinctly remember, his father lifting him up onto his shoulders. It had been rare for his father to have physical contact with him. Their contact had been limited to his father holding his hand, dragging Rumford wherever his father wanted to go, relentless in his pace, uncaring if Rumford’s feet were sore and bleeding in the shoes that did not fit him. So that fateful day, sitting on top of his father’s shoulders, was the best day of his life until his son was born. 

His father had instructed him to check the window, ‘ _Just rattle it’_ , he had said. ‘ _Try the next one!’_ , he had said, walking along the large window. The monstrous window had distracted Rumford, never seeing a window that big before in his life. After a smack from his father, he had gotten back to the task at hand and had grabbed the edge of the window with his little fingers, shaking the window, surprising himself when the window had suddenly popped open. 

“There we go!” His father had said, lifting Rumford off of his shoulders to shove him through the window. “Grab anything small and shiny!”

“Yes, papa.” He had cried back, bouncing up from the floor after his hard fall, over the moon that his father had let him ride on his shoulders. 

The room had been what Rumford knew now to be the study. There hadn’t been much in the way of ‘ _small and shiny’_. He had tried to open the desk drawers, but they had all been locked. Looking around the room, there hadn’t been anything that caught his eye, apart from the two large paintings, hung either side of the fireplace. He had moved deeper into the room, his gaze split between the two paintings. The left painting depicted the beginning of the hunt and the right painting was of the end of the hunt, with the hunters standing over the large stag they had killed. He’d never seen anything like it before. 

“Hurry up, boy!” His father had hissed from outside the window.

Startled, Rumford had jumped, knocking over a small table and its contents onto the floor. Quietly cursing to God, he had dropped to his knees, collecting the silver ashtray, a small glass jar with a silver lid, etched with a pattern, filled with matches, and a strange silver object, flat with a circle at the centre of it. Curious, Rumford had squeezed the sides in, shocked when two blades snapped together, blocking the hole. He had decided to ask his father about it and pocketed it, while clutching the other items to his chest. A quick look over the desk and Rumford had found a fancy letter opener, some loose coins and a gold writing pen, laid next to a gold ink pot. He had snatched them up, oblivious to what they were, and had spilled the black ink down himself, over his hands and the desk, and down onto the carpet and his worn shoes.

“Papa, Papa!” Rumford had cried.

“What!” His father had seethed.

At the window, Rumford tiptoed up to barely see his father on the outside. “I’ve made a mess!”

“I haven’t got time for this!” His father had groaned before asking. “Have you found anything?”

“A few things.” He had told him, struggling as he stretched himself to pass the things to his father. 

It was at this point, Rumford’s life changed for the better and made him into the man he was today. This was where the man, who Rumford came to know as his father, walked into the room, to investigate the loud thud of the small table falling over. At hearing the door and the footsteps on the wooden boards, Rumford had frozen. The Earl had looked to the small table, lying on its side, and had slowly swept his gaze round the room to where Rumford had stood like a statue, his hand posed out of the window. They both had stared at one another: one confused and the other petrified. 

“PAPA!” Rumford had screamed at the top of his lungs.

Launching himself at the window, he had desperately reached for the window, for the window frame, for his father, anything that would help him get out of there. Rumford had fallen back into the room, landing hard onto his arse. Outside, there was the distinct sound of gravel crunching underfoot, while Rumford’s gaze had met the Earl’s again, who was still standing in the doorway, hand on the door handle, flabbergasted by the scene in front of him. Fuelled by his fear, Rumford had scrambled to his feet and, once again, had tried to climb out of the window, helplessly jumping to try and catch the window. It had been as he had been jumping up and down, he had seen the back of his father, running back the way they had come.

“PAPA!” He had yelled until there was no more breath in his lungs. 

His tears had been hot on his cheeks, leaving streaks of clean skin on his face. He had bounced once, twice, perhaps a third time, before the devastation had weighed him down and had sucked all the energy out of him. Unable to stand on his shaky legs, Rumford had crumbled down onto the floor, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, as he hoarsely screamed for his ‘ _Papa!’._

The Earl hadn’t known what to do and had been captivated by the small figure, huddled in the corner of the study, rocking back and forth, crying out for his father. Rumford’s cries had drawn the attention of the rest of the household. The servants all gathered, staring at the little boy, pleading for his father to come back. The Earl’s wife was the last to arrive, her maid hot on her heels, the last to hear the cries and the whispers of what had happened. Thinking back on it, Rumford would’ve sworn he had been there for hours, spilling tear after tear for his father, unable to understand what he had done wrong. Even though he knew, the Earl’s wife had wasted no time in ordering the servants to find his father, instructing her maid to take the boy upstairs and telling her husband to make the coward pay. 

He never did pay for it.

Not knowing what to do with him, the Earl and his wife did what they could until they could decide what to do with him. Firstly, they had sent him for a bath. He had screamed, he had clawed, he had fought with all his might with the maid, refusing to undress and get in the bath. He had been convinced they were going to cook him alive! With the assistance of two footmen, Rumald had been treated to his first bath, never knowing before the pleasure of soaking in warm water. Granted, the water had changed swiftly to black, but it had been glorious, once he had forgotten about them trying to cook him alive. Although, when the maid had decided to tackle his unruly hair with a hair brush, Rumford had sprung out of the bath and had made a break for it, running through the house naked. The memory caused him to chuckle, like it always did. 

After several months, they had decided to keep him, treating him as if he was their own child. The Earl’s wife had never been able to carry a child to full term and had given up hope of ever having their own. As much as they had gifted Rumford with a new life and had finally given him a name, other than ‘ _boy’, he_ had been their chance to have a child. Apart from the servants, nobody outside of the household knew what had taken place and that’s the way it has remained. As far as society was aware, Rumford Gold was the son of the Earl of the Frontlands and had inherited the title and his father’s estate, when the Earl died fourteen years ago. His mother died six years later, enjoying four years as a grandmother before she passed, holding the hand of her beloved son. 

Jefferson grunted as the carriage swooned heavily to the left, throwing Jefferson into the side of the carriage. “I still don’t understand why you need to acquire another cotton mill. Don’t you have your fingers in enough jars to keep you occupied?”

“You didn’t need to come.” Rumford stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“The last time I stayed at home with the children, you went gallivanting off to Oxleigh, got drunk, had a maid or two, and came home to gloat about it.” Jefferson leant forward as he spoke, tapping off his points onto Rumford’s right knee. “I told you, next time you’re swanning off somewhere, I was coming too! Why should you get to have all the fun?”

Rumford finally opened his eyes to look across at his friend. “A maid or two? What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”

“A gentleman, who isn’t married and can ‘do’ whomever he chooses.” Jefferson told him with a knowing smirk.

“Well, I suppose that’s true.” Rumford agreed as he unfolded his arms.

“You know what,” Jefferson sat back. “I need to orchestrate a business trip, where it means you have to stay home with the children for once.”

Crooking an eyebrow at Jefferson, Rumford teased his friend. “What possible business could you have, which didn’t involve you riding my coattails?”

“How am I riding your coattails, when it was you, who invited me to come and live with you?” Jefferson inquired, folding his arms defiantly over his chest. 

“I invited you? You and Grace had literally moved yourselves into - my - home, and I sarcastically commented ‘make yourselves at home’.” Rumford threw back.

Jefferson smirked. “Exactly, make yourselves at home. So we did.”

Rumford chuckled. “You’re getting worse.”

Jefferson opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly the carriage lurched heavily down to the left, slumping Jefferson into the corner of the carriage. There was a loud scraping sound, emanating from underneath Jefferson. Above them, the driver called for the horses to stop, erupting a cry of nays from the four horses. The drastic angle and the carriage coming to a sudden stop, threw Rumford forward out of his seat and propelled him across the carriage, and into Jefferson’s lap. The two friends looked at each other, their faces mere inches apart. 

Waggling his eyebrows at Rumford, Jefferson said in a sultry voice. “Hello, darling.”

“You’d be so lucky.” Rumford told him as he grabbed the back of the seat, bracing his weight, whilst he scooted off of Jefferson’s lap, positioning his feet to stand up awkwardly in the carriage.

“M’ Lord?” shouted Rogers from outside of the carriage, his head appearing at the window in the door. “M’ Lord, are you alright?”

“Quite alright, Rogers. What’s going on?” Rumford inquired, whilst he adjusted his footing.

Rogers gazed went to the rear of the carriage as he spoke. “Looks as though, the rear spring has broken and the force has taken out the wheel at the same time.”

“What does that mean?” Jefferson asked, watching Rumford clamber to the window and stick his head out of it, surveying the damage for himself.

“Damn!” Rumford cursed under his breath, in frustration he slammed his hand against the doorframe of the door, and pulled himself back into the carriage to face his companion. “Means, Mister Mandermer, we’ll be making the rest of our journey on foot.”

“On foot?” Jefferson declared loudly.

“Yes, strange notion, I know.” Rumford commented, while he gestured to Rogers to open the door.

Jefferson lurched forward in his seat, grasping the doorframe to aid him. “Rumford, I’m a gentleman. Not a peasant.”

Tugging down his waistcoat underneath his coat, Rumford pivoted round, saying. “Jefferson, we’ll take the horses.”

“The horses?” Jefferson strained to peer out of the carriage, looking to the horses in front of the carriage. “But we’ve got no saddles, Rumford.”

“Jefferson, you have three options.” He started to tell him, leaning his upper body through the doorway of the carriage. “One: you stay here until they come and collect the carriage. Two: you get on the horse. Or three: you walk.”

Jefferson visibly gulped. “I think I’ll…” He pointed towards the horses. “Take option two.”

“I thought you would.” The left side of Rumford lips pulled back into a sly smile.

Pushing himself away from the doorway, Rumford moved out of the way, allowing Rogers to help Jefferson climb out of carriage. He propped his fists onto his hips, holding back the flaps of his overcoat, surveying the damage to the rear of the carriage with a raised eyebrow. It was no bother to Rumford, it just prolonged their journey and his time away from his son.

“I doubt we’ll make it to the next village in time, M’ Lord.” Rogers shared his hesitation with Rumford.

Rumford dropped his hands down to his sides, whilst he stepped round to face Rogers. “Any suggestions?”

“Avonlea would be the next village, M’ Lord.” Rogers gestured in the direction they’d been heading. “If I remember right, I believe Viscount French’s estate is close by. It may be best to go there to seek lodgings, then to try and get to the village before dusk.”

“Viscount French?” Rumford inquired, looking to Jefferson, who was perched on the footstep.

Jefferson’s brow scrunched in thought. “I think you visited not long after your father died.”

“I can only assume; he doesn’t hold a presence at court.” He said to explain why he had no clue, who the Viscount was.

“As long as he has wine and food, and a warm bed, I don’t care what kind of presence he has.” Jefferson declared, pushing himself up from where he sat on the footstep.

“I’ll get the horses, M’ Lord.” Rogers bowed his head and backed away before turning away to go to the horses.

Huffing out a breath, Rumford strolled a few steps away from the carriage, back along the track they had travelled, looking out on the luscious green fields. It was strange to think that he owned an estate similar to the fields in front of him. Seeing as he had come from nothing and now was the envy of a lot of other gentlemen, and turned the heads of many of their wives. Rumford wanted for nothing. Though, many gentlemen were interested in getting their grubby hands on his estate, proposing Rumford marry their eldest daughter. He had no interested in taking another wife, not after what happened with his late wife. No, the best Rumford hoped for, for the future, was his son grew into a fine man and choose wisely, when it came time for him to marry. Hopefully learning from the mistakes of his father. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Belle is trying to avoid Gaston, two men on horseback turn up at the house.

It wasn’t very ladylike, the way Belle was perched on the edge of the large table, swinging her legs back and forth, while the kitchen staff bustled about, preparing the menu Belle had decided on at the last minute. Mrs Lucas, otherwise known as Granny, was waving a ladle about like she was conducting an orchestra, savagely barking out orders to her troops. None of the kitchen staff minded. It was Granny’s way. She had always been the same. Belle had learnt at a young age, not to run through the kitchen, when Granny was in full swing with her ladle. Several times, she’d been clipped up the side of the head, warned that the kitchen was nowhere a young lady should be playing. Though that had never stopped Belle and Ruby, and the other children, doing it. Especially, when the floor of the kitchen had been moped and they could slide from one side of the kitchen to the other. That was until Granny caught them and hauled them out by the scruff of their neck.

Belle smiled at the memory, her eyes on Granny, who was watching over one of the young servant girls, dicing up a bundle of carrots with a large knife. The girl was young, probably no older than fourteen. Granny had already made the girl throw away a pile of chopped carrots, because the young girl had chopped them wrong. It looked as though the young girl was still raw from the telling off, sniffling into her sleeve from time to time, secretly eyeing Granny out of the corner of her eye. Belle wanted to go over and reassure the girl that Granny was a pussy cat really, but was wary of the ladle in Granny’s hands.

“Belle!” Ruby called her in a hushed voice.

Turning her head to see Ruby, popping her head around the edge of the door, Belle hopped off the large table and hurried over to her, asking when she was closer. “What is it?”

“He’s here.” Ruby said, giving Belle a pointed look.

“Bugger.” Belle murmured under her breath.

“Lady Belle!” Granny admonished, causing the two of them to look to Granny. “A lady, such as yourself, should not be using such language.”

Belle felt her cheeks flush. “Sorry, Granny.”

Slipping her hand into Belle’s, Ruby tugged Belle out of the kitchen and into the hallway, which was surprisingly cooler. Ruby motioned for Belle to precede her down the hallway. Letting out a weary breath, she took the lead, slightly lifting her skirt of her dress up as she walked, heading to the foyer to greet their visitor.

She already knew the topics of conversation: hunting, self-appreciation, hunting, more self-appreciation, which was followed by a small show of him proving how strong he was. None of which, interested Belle. Hunting down poor defenceless animals, in the name of sport, had never fascinated her. Nor hearing him regale, how he had wrestled a stag with his bare hands and had bested the animal by snapping its neck. The head of this poor stag hung in the entryway of Gaston’s parent’s manor. When she had seen it on their only visit to Gaston’s home, looming over her, Belle had wanted to cry at the sight of the poor thing.

A hand grabbed her elbow from behind, hauling her back to a stop. Ruby came to stand in front of her, stroking back the loose strains of hair, tucking the ends into the bun at the back of Belle’s head. Belle gazed off to the side, waiting for Ruby to finish making sure her appearance was perfect.

“Try and at least talk to him.” Ruby instructed. “Remember his last visit, when your answers had been either ‘yes’ or ‘no’? Let’s not have a repeat performance. I don’t think your father is much in the mood for it.”

Belle pressed her lips into a thin line before she answered. “No, I don’t think he is either.”

Her father worried. Worried what the future had install for his only daughter. He used to be a confident man, but he had lost his certainty the day Belle’s mother died. Though her father had carried on, burying down his feelings, it had been obvious to anyone that her father had been heartbroken. Her parents had had a conventional marriage – an arrangement made in their early teens, married a few weeks after her mother’s sixteenth birthday. The year her mother died, would’ve marked the thirteenth year of their union. Nonetheless, six years later, her father’s grief had not eased a day since that fateful day. She had a caught him several times over the years, conversing with her mother as he sat alone in front of the fire in the study, nursing a glass of brandy in his hand. Belle could only pray to God, begging to experience a tenth of the fondness, the love, her parents had shared for one another.

“Come on.” Ruby grabbed her elbow and escorted Belle out of the refuge the hallway offered and into the foyer.

The footman bowed his head to Gaston as the gentleman entered the foyer, holding the door open until Gaston was clear of the door and closed it silently, remaining stood with his back to the wall, staring at the wall opposing him. The grin on Gaston’s face made Belle grimace. He was dressed in his usual attire – a red tailored coat with a long tail that touched the back of his calves, a gold waistcoat with a lucrative pattern, a white linen shirt and tan coloured trousers. His knee high boots were a deep luscious dark brown, polished to a gleaming shine, which Belle determined was so he could see his own reflection in them. A lot of the men, Belle had met, never wore something that was so… eye catching, but then it was Gaston.

“French,” Gaston gave her father an overly exaggerate bow. “I hope you are well.”

“I am, I am. Yourself?” Maurice bowed his head slightly, acknowledging Gaston’s theatrical bow.

Gaston smugly smiled, nodding his head to the side, whilst he placed his hand across his chest. “I am feeling much better, now that I’ve crossed the threshold into your home.”

Glancing back at Ruby, who had dropped back a few steps behind her, Belle shared a look with her friend, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Ruby shook her head and gestured for her to look ahead. She let out a deep sigh as she returned her attention to her father and Gaston, who were conversing with one another.

“No doubt, Belle will feel the same way, once she knows you’ve arrived.” Her father said, holding onto the lapels of his coat, his left thumb unconsciously rubbing the material.

“I’m very aware that Lord Saffroy has arrived, papa.” Belle said to announce her arrival.

Gaston grinned from ear to ear, his eyes already ogling and envisioning how she looked underneath her dress, as he crossed an arm across his stomach and bowed to her, keeping his gaze on her the whole time. “My Lady Belle, I am so pleased to see you.”

“As am I you, my Lord.” She gave him a short curtsy, a bob of her head, swallowing the acidic taste in her mouth.

“I’ve thought of nothing else, but you, since my last visit.” Gaston shared with her, leisurely clasping his hands behind his back.

Maurice swivelled to face her, smiling. “You hear that, Belle?”

“I do, papa.” She kindly returned her father’s smile, wondering how she could possibly excuse herself from the situation.

“I know I’ve just arrived, but I’d like very much to take you for a walk in the gardens, my Lady.” Gaston wasn’t looking at her as he said, he was saying it to her father, whose eyes beamed with the possibilities of them taking a walk in the gardens together.

Her father held an open hand out to her, sweeping the suggestion straight to his daughter to answer. Her mouth opened ready with a retort, posed on the tip of her tongue, but etiquette demanded she should accept his offer. Belle quickly closed her mouth, considering what options were available to her.

“My Lady, you still haven’t pick out a gown for this evening.” Ruby interjected.

“Yes!” Belle whipped round to smile at Ruby and then back to the astonished faces of her father and Gaston. “I haven’t picked out my gown. If, my lord, would permit me, I shall hasten upstairs to make my selection and come and find you, so we can take a walk in the gardens.”

Gaston was dumbstruck with his mouth hanging open. Her father bounced his gaze from Belle to Gaston, back to Belle and then to Ruby. Taking advantage, Belle gathered up her skirt, making it easier for her to run up the stairs, and dashed to the stairs.

“I won’t be long, I promise.” Belle waved a hand at her father. “I know my father would love to hear about your latest hunting conquest.”

Blinking his eyes, Gaston finally closed his mouth, moving his gaze from Belle to her father, who was following Belle and Ruby up the stairs with his gaze. The pair hitched their skirts higher at the top of the stairs, breaking out into a sprint, getting as far as they could from the grand staircase before her father called her back. They bounced into each other as they ran, giggling at their naughtiness.

They mutually slowed their pace and Ruby commented to Belle. “Your father is going to be furious with you, when he realises.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Belle smiled wickedly at her friend.

When they reached the door of Belle’s chambers, Belle pushed forward and opened the door, holding it open for her friend as Ruby followed her inside. They exchanged the door between them and Ruby closed it, while Belle hurried her step to throw herself onto bed, landing flat on her back. ‘ _Safe.’_ , she thought to herself, fanning out her arms to feel the softness of the bed linens. The child in her, wanted to crawl under her bedsheets and remain there for the rest of the day, feigning illness or women issues, so her father and Gaston would leave her alone. If there had been enough space under her bed, like there had been when she was little, she would have squeezed underneath it, hiding herself away from the evitable. 

“Do you have a dress in mind for tonight?” Ruby queried opening the door that led to Belle’s dressing room.

Belle folded her right arm over her face, covering her eyes. “Ooooh…” She flopped her arm back onto the bed. “Maybe I could feign illness and eat my dinner in my room tonight.”

“Belle, which dress?” Ruby raised her voice to be hear in the other room.

“You know I haven’t groomed Phillipe in a while.” She commented, ignoring Ruby’s question.

Ruby poked her head around the door. “Your horse isn’t going anywhere and if you’ve forgotten, you have a Stablemaster, who tends to his needs.” She held out a blue gown for Belle to inspect. “This dress?”

Belle raised her head off of the bed and shook her head. “No.”

Disappearing back behind the door, Ruby said. “Belle, at some point, you’re going to have to accept that Gaston is going to ask for your hand in marriage. Your father will, of course, accept his offer and you’ll be married possibly before the autumn.”

“Thanks, Ruby. That’s exactly what I want to hear.” She said sarcastically, sitting up to sit on the end of her bed.

“Honey, if I could help you dodge the bullet, I would.” Ruby told her before her head appeared around the corner of the door. “But I don’t think your father or Granny would allow it. Plus,” She paused for effect. “I don’t want to marry him, either.”

Rolling her eyes, Belle fell back onto the bed, covering her face with both of her hands. “I hate my life. Why couldn’t I have been born common? Or poor? Anything but a lady.”

“We all have trials and tribulations, Belle. Don’t think for one second, that anyone lesser than you, has it any easier than you.” Ruby came back into the room, carrying a gold gown, the skirt and sleeves embroidered with roses, the neck line dipping enough to show an ample amount of her bosom. “You just get the luxury of food in your belly, wine in your glass, a roaring fire and lots and lots of books to read.” She smiled after her books comment.

“I know I should really be grateful.” Belle sat up again, clutching her hands in her lap, playing with the edge of her thumbnail.

“I don’t envy you, Belle, but it’s always been your role in life to marry a Lord and give him an heir.” Ruby said, laying the gown out onto bed behind Belle, and then asked. “Up or down?”

“Up.” Was Belle’s response to how she wanted her hair.

Ruby went back to the dressing room, saying over her shoulder. “It could be worse.”

“How so?” She asked, while regretting she asked at the same time.

“Well,” Ruby perched herself up against the doorframe. “Gaston could be fat, old and stink.”

Belle gave Ruby a pointed look. “Sounds very appealing right now.”

Ruby threw her head back and laughed as she carried on into the dressing room, while at the same time, there was a sharp knock at Belle’s door before the door opened and one of the maids stuck her head around the door. Seeing Belle was decent, the maid came into the room and closed the door behind her. The young woman curtsied, bowing her head, as Ruby walked out of the dressing room into Belle’s chambers, to see who had knocked the door.

“M’ Lady, two men on horses are approaching the house.” The young woman told her in a hurry.

“Two men?” Belle questioned shifting off the end of the bed to stand on her feet.

Ruby walked towards the young maid, asking. “Right now?”

“Yes, M’ Lady.” The young maid nodded her head at Ruby.

Belle and Ruby locked their gazes on each other, leaving the young maid to look between them, waiting for either one of them to give her an instruction. Ruby was the first to respond to the news, pushing her brow up her forehead. Framing her hips with her hands, Belle let her gaze momentarily go to the closed door, struggling to contain the excitement building low in her gut. The young maid frowned at the two ladies, unsure of the protocol.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Ruby sashayed passed the young maid, edging her way towards the door. Belle narrowed her gaze on her friend, fully aware of what her friend was about to do. There had always been a one-upmanship between them. Who was faster, who could climb the highest, who could hold their breath the longest. No matter what it was, there had always been a competition between them. And right now, the competition was who could get to the front of the house the quickest, to see the strangers riding up to the house.

She took a step and it was like someone had shot a pistol, signalling the start of the race, as Ruby raced to the door. Belle sprinted across her bedroom, knocking the young maid out of her way, and met with Ruby at the door, throwing herself at her friend, and fought with her to open the door. The young maid stood back, perplexed by their madness, whilst they struggled to get the door open, pushing and shoving each other. Belle managed to get a hand on the door handle and twisted it, pulling open the door, but Ruby slammed the door close with her shoulder, shoving Belle out of the way. There was a small cry of ‘ _Ruby’_ as Belle was forced back from the door. Ruby grinned over her shoulder at Belle, whilst she yanked open the bedroom door and made a break out into the hallway. Gathering her skirt, Belle raced after her, their feet pounding down the hallway as they competed to get to the window at the end of the hallway.

Ruby got to the window first and pressed her face up against the glass, looking for the two men approaching the house. Gasping for breath, Belle slowed her pace and moseyed up to the window, coming to stand beside her friend, giving her an evil look, while she tried to catch her breath.

“You cheated.” She told Ruby breathless.

Ruby pointed a finger to the glass, indicating to something outside. “Look.”

“What?” Belle asked, all but forgotten about the two men.

Struggling to see, Belle barged Ruby aside, crooking her neck to see where Ruby had pointed. Outside the front of the house were two men, one of them was still sat on his horse, while the other was standing beside his horse, squatting down so the tails of his coat touched the ground, doing… something to himself. From their angle, they could not see what he was doing, but it looked quite peculiar from behind.

“What’s he doing?” Whispered Ruby.

Belle lifted her brow at the question. “I have no idea.”

The other man threw his leg over the horse and slipped off its back, landing gracefully beside it, pausing to pat the creature’s neck. The man walked around the horse of the other man and seemed to stop in his tracks, once he saw what the other man was doing. His head shook as he collected the reins of the other man’s horse and walked away, with the horses following obediently behind him. The other man straightened his legs and walked a few steps before he slightly squatted again, and carried on walking, trailing after the other man and the horses.

“Come on.” Belle instructed and pushed herself away from the window.

Traipsing back down the hallway at a hurried pace, the two glanced at each other, both with questioning looks, and made their way back to the grand staircase. As they neared the landing for the grand staircase, Belle could hear voices floating up from the foyer below.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I was not expecting your arrival.” She heard her father say.

“No, no, Lord French, it is I who is at fault, coming to your home without an invitation.” A strange accented voice said.

Leaning over the banister, hungry to feed her curiosity, Belle looked down at the foyer to see the two men being greeted by her father and Gaston. One of the men, who Belle had seen squatting outside, was standing a few step back from the other man, a painful grimace on his face. She decided, he was probably handsome, when he wasn’t pulling faces. His clothes were… interesting - he wore a royal purple overcoat, with a maroon waistcoat, a white shirt with a high collar and purple cravat. His attire was very flamboyant.

“If we hadn’t had a bother with our carriage, I wouldn’t have been forced to come to your home unannounced, Lord French, to which I offer my apologies.” The man told her father, lightly gesturing with his hands.

From her angle, Belle could see that the man was slightly shorter than her father, thinner too. He wore a black overcoat, a gold pattern stitched onto the lapels and cuffs of his coat, a dark red waistcoat reminding of red roses in the gardens, a white shirt with a high collar, which disappeared into his hair at the back of his neck, and a red cravat. His hair was swept to the side, short but a good length to run your fingers through and pull. Belle’s eyes widened at her thought, never before considering such a thing about man, and turned her face away from Ruby’s gaze, feeling the rush of a blush colour her cheeks. Though, her gaze remained on the stranger below, intrigued by what other thoughts this man could conjure in her.

Her father shook his head. “It’s no bother at all, my Lord. I’m more than happy to welcome you both into my home.”

Ruby tugged at Belle’s elbow, wanting to go down to the foyer, but Belle held onto the banister, enthralled by the man below as he said. “Thank you, Lord French, I greatly appreciate this kindness and hope I can return your kindness in the future.”

“French, maybe the two gentleman would care for a drink.” Gaston suggested into her father’s ear.

“Yes, I’m sure they would.” Her father agreed with a nod to Gaston and said to the two men. “We’ll be having dinner soon, but if you’d like to follow us to the drawing room, my Lord, I could offer you a refreshment before dining.”

“Sounds most agreeable, doesn’t it, Jefferson?” The man turned to the other man.

The flamboyantly dressed man, Jefferson, nodded his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

Bolting up straight, Belle gathered her dress, while the men below retired back to the drawing room, and hurried back down the hallway to her chambers. She could hear Ruby’s pounding footsteps, following her closely down the hallway. They busted through the door to her chambers together, startling the young maid, who had remained in her room. Belle twisted herself, trying in vain to reach the clips at the back of her dress, as she crossed the room to where Ruby had laid her dress onto the bed.

Closing the door, Ruby ordered the young maid. “Lottie, go into Lady Belle’s dressing room and get me gold silk shoes, with the gold buckle!”

“Yes, Miss Lucas.” Lottie bobbed her head at Ruby and hurried into the dressing room.

“Ruby, help me!” Belle was struggling to reach the back of her dress.

“I’m coming.” Ruby muttered as she seamlessly hurried over to Belle, her hands reaching out for Belle’s dress.

Belle swung round, putting her back to Ruby, fidgeting as she said. “He had a strange accent, did he not?”

“His friend is rather peculiar. Whatever was he doing outside?” Ruby asked, easily unhooking the clasps at the back of Belle’s dress. 

The dress grew gradually looser and when the last clasp was unhooked, fell soundlessly down Belle’s body, pooling into a heap at her feet. She hopped out of the puddle of her dress, tugging at the bust of her corset, adjusting herself, as Ruby picked up the other dress from the bed.

“Did you catch what the other man’s name was?” Belle asked, steadying herself with a hand on Ruby’s shoulder, stepping into the dress that Ruby held open for her. 

Ruby shook her head, saying. “No, just his friend was called Jefferson.” She stooped lower, making it easier for Belle to step her other leg into the dress. “He was… very eye catching.”

She chuckled, whilst Ruby slid the dress up Belle’s body. “Are we talking about his clothes or his handsome face?”

“His clothes.” Ruby balked at Belle’s question.

“Miss Lucas, did you mean these?” Lottie questioned from the doorway to the dressing room.

Snapping her gaze to Lottie, she nodded her head, while Belle fed her arms into the short sleeves of the dress. “Yes, bring them here.”

“The other one looked very regal.” Belle remarked, adjusting the sleeves on her shoulders.

“Very skinny.” Ruby commented, shifting round to back of Belle to fast the clasps of the dress.

“I wouldn’t say skinny…” Her gaze travelled up to the ceiling as she pondered over it. “Lean, I think is a better word.”

“Lottie, help Lady Belle with changing her shoes.” Ruby gathered her skirt and hurried to the dressing room.

Belle huffed a breath, sitting down onto the edge of her bed, saying down to Lottie, who had dropped to her knees at her feet. “It’s not like anyone sees my shoes.”

Lottie smirked, whilst she lifted Belle’s skirt to find her feet and lifted her right foot to remove the shoe, replacing it with the reciprocating shoe. Hearing Ruby’s dress swishing back into the room, Belle looked to her friend, seeing a hairbrush and the jewelled butterfly clip in Ruby’s hands. Her gaze was held by the clip, a momento she had taken of her mother’s. It was normally saved for special occasions. Belle breathed in unsteadily, hit with a wave of fresh grief and guilt. 

“Hey,” Ruby said to gain Belle’s attention as she laid the items on the bed and then put her hand on Belle’s shoulder, offering comfort. “None of that. She wouldn’t want that.”

“No.” Belle dropped her gaze to her hands, playing with the edge of her thumbnail.

Lottie clambered up from the floor, clutching Belle’s discard shoes in her hands, and tore away at a blistering pace to return the shoes to the dressing room. Stepping round Belle, her hand remaining on Belle’s shoulder, Ruby bent down, forcing herself into Belle’s gaze. She didn’t say anything. She waited until Belle lifted her eyes to her face and grinned a toothy smile at her friend. Belle couldn’t help but snort. 

“Come on, let’s do your hair.” Ruby hooked her thumb, gesturing for Belle to get up.

Belle stood, voicing her thoughts. “I wonder if he reads.”

“Who?” Ruby turned Belle by her arms and started to remove the pins holding her hair. 

“The regal looking one.” She clarified, leaning her head to see Ruby over her shoulder.

Ruby forcefully turned Belle’s head forward. “Most gentlemen read.”

Belle glared Ruby over her shoulder. “You know what I meant.”

“Nobody” Ruby forced her head straight again, mumbling through the pins in her mouth. “Reads like you.”

Her lip poured as she conceded Ruby was right. “It would be nice to meet a gentleman who did. At least then we could converse about something, instead of nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ruby started to brush through Belle’s hair, drawing her long brown curls back into Ruby’s hand. “I know Gaston’s rendition of his last hunt, always makes your heart thump widely.”

Belle scoffed. “Oh, of course.” She said sarcastically. “The anticipation is becoming too much. I don’t know whether I can contain my excitement much longer.”

“Here.” Ruby handed the brush to Belle, who took it.

“Will that be all, Miss Lucas?” Lottie asked, standing dutifully by the dressing room doorway.

“No, that’ll be all. Thank you, Lottie.” Ruby replied to Lottie as she tightly twisted Belle’s hair into a ponytail and then folded it, pressed it into the back of Belle’s head, securing it with the butterfly clip.

Belle touched her fingers to the hair behind her, feeling the tension in her hair, threatening to pull itself out of her scalp. “I’d say he was younger than papa, but definitely older than me.”

“Which one?” Ruby asked, seeking clarification, as she pinned some of the loose strains. 

“The regal one.” Belle stated, feeling that it should've been obvious.

“You like him then?” Her friend questioned, but before she had even finished her question, Belle had sprung round, her face twisted in disgust. 

“NO!” Belle exclaimed, definitely a little bit too loudly. 

Ruby spun her back by her shoulders, adjusting the loose ends of Belle’s hair, fanning out above the butterfly clip. “It’s just an observation.” Belle could hear Ruby was grinning. “It being the fourth time, you mentioned him.”

“No, it wasn’t!” She refused to accept the truth.

She didn’t like him, to like something there had to be a familiarity with the subject. And she knew nothing about him. Intrigued, yes. The stranger was intriguing. He said they had a bother with their carriage - Where were they heading? Where had they come from? Was his hair as soft as it looked? What business had brought them here? She was only curious. This sort of occurrence had never happened before. Normally people were invited or wrote requesting to stay with them. It was unheard of, for someone of substance to drop in unannounced. It was only natural that she wanted to know more, anyone would given the circumstances. 

Belle pushed her thoughts aside and turned her head to ask Ruby. “Are you done?”

“Nearly.” Ruby tugged at a piece of hair before Belle felt a pin slide into her hair. “Done.”

Lifting her skirt, Belle strode purposefully to the door of her chambers and opened the door, glimpsing at Ruby before she exited her room. Ruby closed the door, hurrying a couple of steps to catch up with Belle. She glimpsed back at her friend, not liking the knot of guilt tightening in her gut. Her tone had been short and curt. She had never spoken to her friend like that before and she felt terrible.

At the landing of the grand staircase, Belle halted, catching Ruby’s arm and her friend by surprise, as she begged. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be short with you.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Ruby tenderly placed her hand on top of Belle’s, smiling warmly.

“Promise?” She asked, squeezing Ruby’s arm.

Ruby returned the squeeze. “Promise.” She nodded her head to the stairs. “Come on, you need to find out who they are, so you can tell me later.”

They smiled at each other and swiftly followed the landing to the top of the grand staircase, and descended the stairs together. Turning left at the bottom of the stairs, Belle led the way to the drawing room, hearing their conversation filter out into the hallway. She entered, peeping around the edge of the door, wanting to see them before they became aware of her.

Her father was sitting in his usual armchair, near the fireplace, a glass of brandy cradled in his hand. Opposite her father, queerly leaning on the arm of the chair was the one called, Jefferson, who seemed to be favouring his left side. She frowned, regarding him as very odd. Moving her gaze, she avoided Gaston, standing perched against the fireplace, his chest puffed out, arm laid across the mantle, boring them to death with the tale of how he bested a stag with his bare hands. Belle blew out a breath, tired of hearing the tale. 

Stood by one of the french windows, which led out onto the courtyard, the other man had his back to the room, admiring the scene framed by a windowpane. He sipped from his brandy and lowered his arm, swirling the contents of his glass. Belle took a step, sucking in her bottom lip to bite it, stemming the hunger she felt, at the sight of him licking the taste of the brandy from his lips. His brow twitched and then his head turned, their gazes met. Many wouldn’t have classed him as handsome, but Belle was breathless as he held her gaze. 

“Ah!” Her father got up from his armchair. “My Lord, If I may, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Belle.”

His dark brown eyes appeared endless, she could feel herself getting lost in them, captured by the darkness in them. She wanted to follow the curve of his thin nose, tracing it down to the peak. His lips, thin and showing the perfect amount of flesh, looked inviting and tasty. The tips of his ears stuck out ever so slightly, elvish looking, her fingers itched to touch them, following the edge of his ear round to the lobe. The twitch of the left side of his lips, twerking into half a smile caught her off balance.

“It is my honour, Lady French.” His brogue made her hitch a breath, while he bowed, lowering his gaze for a second. 

“Belle, this is the Earl of the Frontlands, Lord Gold.” Was the introduction.

Curtsying to him, Belle dipped her gaze down, picking a random spot on the large rug, and as she straightened, she raised her gaze to meet his, finding his sly smile had broadened, while she had averted her gaze. She was barely aware of Jefferson standing, a whispered groan under his breath as he stood. Whilst they gazed at one another, her insides were melting into a warm pool, centring deep inside of her, threatening to spill, if she didn’t clamp her thighs together. 

“Mister Mandermer, my daughter, Belle.” 

Jefferson waved his hand showily in front of him as he bent to bow at her, smiling at her. “My lady.”

Lord Gold lifted his glass to his lips, eyeing her over the curve of the glass, and drank his brandy. In her chest, her heart raced, pounding faster than Phillipe could gallop. The glass lowered, revealing his face, his mouth. She held her breath, staring at the pink tip of his tongue, tentatively dipping out to run along his top lip. 

**_Cough_ **

Waking from her daze, Belle looked to her father, though she had difficulties to keep her gaze from going back to Lord Gold, and watched her father bulge his eyes at her, firmly nodding his head towards their guests. She followed his nod to Jefferson and on to Lord Gold, who was grinning most like a Cheshire Cat. There was a sharp poke in her back, forcing her to take a step forward into the room. Whipping her head round, she was confronted by Ruby, mouthing ‘ _say something_ ’ to her. Belle frowned and turned back to the other occupants of the room, all of whom were looking expectantly at her. 

‘ _Bugger.’_ , she thought and said aloud. “My apologies, my Lord,” Belle stooped into a curtsy. “I was not aware, we would be receiving visitors this evening.”

“Lord Gold and Mister Mandermer have had some trouble with their carriage.” Her father explained. “I’ve invited them to stay with us until their carriage is repaired.” Maurice smiled pleasantly at Lord Gold, who acknowledged this with a curt nod of his head.

Her gaze drifted to Lord Gold. He was spying into his glass, rotating what was left of his brandy in the glass. Then he blinked and opened his eyes, revealing he had moved his gaze to her. She tore her eyes away from him, bothered greatly by the intensity of his gaze. The contact of her thighs pressed so tightly, giving her a delightful amount of friction, made the rest of skin tingle.

“My Lady Belle, I was reminiscing about the time, I wrestled that large stag with my bare hands.” Gaston informed her. “You remember the stag? His head hangs in the entryway at home, remember?”

She pulled a smile at him. “Of course, my Lord.”

Gaston opened his mouth to continue his story, when Belle felt light touch to her arm and looked back to Ruby, telling her. “They’re ready to serve.”

‘ _Thank God’_ , Belle looked up to the ceiling, halfheartedly signing the cross over her chest, and turned to the room to make the announcement. “Mrs Lucas is ready to serve, papa.”

“Wonderful.” Her father held his arms out, telling them how glorious Granny’s cooking was, while Belle took the chance to escape the room, to escape Lord Gold’s gaze. 

On exiting the room, Belle placed her hands on her face, her cheeks were on fire. Ruby was giving her a strange look, whilst she put a guiding arm around Belle, escorting her to the dining room. The squirming in her gut gradually died down, leaving a dull ache in its stead. She’d never experience anything so intense. Was this what they meant? Was this love at first sight? Or was this the mortal sin of lust he had evoked in her?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumford and Jefferson travel to Viscount French’s estate.

Adjusting his grip on the reins, Rumford kept a keen eye out for the manor, they had been told would be somewhere along this well-worn road. ‘ _ Oh, yes, M’ Lord. Follow this road. It’ll take you straight there.’,  _ the fieldworker had told them. Rumford had thanked the man, nodding graciously to him, while Jefferson had groaned, riding by, hunched over his horse. Before lightly kicking his horse, continuing on their journey, Rumford couldn’t help but ponder, if his life had taken a different path, would he have been a fieldworker? A blacksmith’s apprentice? A worker in a cotton mill, perhaps? He wouldn’t have minded, he had always enjoyed doing things with his hands, losing himself in the work. Finding it easier to think through his troubles, while fiddling with something.

A groan invited Rumford to look at Jefferson, cantering alongside him, sat awkwardly on his horse. Riding was not a passion of Jefferson’s, unless it was a busty blonde maid. Whereas he had always enjoyed the diversion. Rumford could remember the first time his father, the Earl, had taken him out on a horse. 

It had been not long after the Earl and wife had claimed Rumford as their own. He hadn’t been sure where they had been going, when the Earl had instructed Rumford to follow him, striding off at a relentless pace. His little legs hadn’t been able to keep up with the Earl. Worried, he would anger the Earl, like he had his father, Rumford had to run to keep up with him, fearing he’d be casted out of their home, if he couldn’t keep up. Hearing the thunder of Rumford’s feet, the Earl had halted to confront Rumford, scowling at the young boy. He had stopped under the gaze of the Earl, recognising a hint of anger in the Earl’s eyes, and had feared the Earl was about to raise his hand to him. 

Turning his eyes away, cowering from the inevitable, Rumford had readied himself for the back hander his father had often given him. The grandfather clock had ticked loudly in the foyer. He had counted the ticks. One, two, three, four… Then he had to start again. One, two, three, four… Unable to count past four. It had been at the end of his third count, Rumford had dared to look at the Earl. Strangely, the Earl was offering an open hand to Rumford. Dubious, his eyes had followed the Earl’s arm up to his face, and had scrunched his brow at the expression on the Earl’s face. The hint of anger he had seen was gone. There was a softness to Earl’s eyes, which Rumford learned in the following months, was reserved only for him. Cautiously, he had slipped his smaller hand into the Earl’s and had a moment of panic, when the Earl had gently closed his large fingers around his hand.

“Come on, Rumford.” The Earl had crooned.

The Earl had turned to walk on and Rumford had dashed off his spot, rushing to get a head start on the Earl. The tether between them had tightened and Rumford was halted from going any further forward, but had swung round to face the Earl, who had lightly chuckled at Rumford. Again, the Earl had started to walk and Rumford followed, confused by the Earl’s behaviour. 

They had walked together, their hands joined, and had left the house through the open doorway to the courtyard. Rumald had chanced a glance up to the Earl’s face, surprised to find the Earl smiling down at him. Quickly turning his gaze away, it had unsettled him to be offered such a small kindness of a smile. His father had never smiled at him. His father had only smiled, when there was a coin in his hand or he was duping a coin out of someone else’s hand.

“M’ Lord, your horse.” The Stablemaster had said, strolling out from the stables, leading a black horse with a hand under its chin.

“Thank you, Andrew.” The Earl had slowed to a stop, reaching his hand out to touch his horse.

The sheen of the horse’s cost was mesmerising. Its muscles had rippled under its skin with every step it took. Pulling the tall, strong animal to a stop, the Stablemaster had positioned the horse to stand side on to the Earl. Rumford hadn’t known where to look, his eyes wide as he had taken in the magnificent beast in front of him. The horse suddenly let out a loud chuff, bowing his head a few times before it had shaken its head from side to side, shaking out its long silky mane. Stroking a firm hand over the horse’s flank, the Earl had shushed the horse, whispering sweet nothings to it.

“You can touch him, if you want, Rumford.”

At hearing his name, his new name, Rumford had thrown his gaze up to the Earl, who gave him an encouraging nod. Looking back to the horse, hesitantly he had reached his free hand out to the horse, tentatively placing it onto the horse’s shoulder. The horse had let out a short whine and had shuffled a step away, offended by Rumford’s hesitant touch.

“Whoa… Hey.” The Stablemaster had calmed the horse, caressing a hand up and down its muzzle. 

The Earl had knelt down to Rumford’s height, stroking the lower flank of the horse, as he said. “Be kind and firm with your touch, Rumford. You’re it’s master, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care about the animal.”

Rumford had tried again, matching the Earl’s touch, and the horse had let out a pleasant chuff. Its coat was indeed silky smooth to the touch, with an underlying coarseness, but smooth enough that his hand had glided over its coat. The Earl had stood, while Rumford had marvelled at the feel of the horse. He’d seen horses before, but only at a distance, never close enough to touch them, to feel their ribs expand when they took in a breath.

Without him noticing, the Earl had climbed up onto the horse and had settled himself into the saddle. It was a shock, when the Stablemaster had grabbed Rumford, scaring the life out of him, sure this was the moment they were going to throw him out into the cold. His fear evaporated at the Earl's smile. The Stablemaster had hefted Rumford up, aided by the Earl guiding Rumford’s leg, and had put him on the horse, just in front of the Earl. Rumford had twisted to see the Earl behind him, worried the Earl was about to do something to him.

“We shouldn’t be too long, Andrew.” The Earl had informed the Stablemaster, taking the reins being offered to him. “Just around the lake and back.”

“Very good, M’ Lord.” The Stablemaster had bowed his head respectfully.

In a rush, Rumford had lurched backwards into the firm chest of the Earl, thrown back by the horse setting off into a gallop. The Earl had chuckled above him. Craning his neck to see the Earl, Rumford then had become aware of the strong arms around him, barring him from falling off the horse. He had lowered his gaze, to see these two arms encircling him, hunching his brow at the sight of them. No one had ever put their arms around him before. Anytime he had sought comfort from his father, he had been kicked away and told to get on with his chores. 

“Hold on, Rumford.” The Earl had instructed and waited until Rumford had a firm grip on the Earl’s arms before he had kicked the flanks of the horse.

Thrown back to press into the Earl’s chest, he clearly remembered laughing nervously at the increase in speed, but he wasn’t scared. All his life, he had been scared of everything and anything. A noise, a shadow, a raised voice. Protected by the Earl’s arms, Rumford had nothing to fear and could genuinely enjoy the new experience, safe in his new father’s embrace.

“Do you think we’re getting close?” Jefferson asked, interrupting Rumford’s musings. 

Rumford breathed loudly through his nose. “Hopefully just over the crest of this hill.”

“Good.” Jefferson groaned. “My balls are killing me.”

“Next time, don’t be so enthusiastic to get on your horse.” He chided, stemming his laughter.

Jefferson had watched him effortlessly get up onto his horse, pulling himself up as he threw his leg up and over the horse, making it look easy to get onto the horse without a saddle. Sat on his horse, waiting, Rumford had bit back his laughter, watching Jefferson struggle to climb up onto the horse. Rogers had offered to help Jefferson and gave him a leg up onto the horse. Throwing his leg over the horse, Jefferson had begun to let out a cheer, finally being on the horse, but his cheer soon turned into a cry as he had slipped off the horse. On the second try, Jefferson had instructed Rogers to grab his leg, once he was on the horse. Rumford had sat back, observing their little show, as again Jefferson was launched up onto the horse, throwing his leg out, and had slammed himself down onto the horse with the aid of Rogers, yanking on his foot. A loud groan erupted from Jefferson, folding himself forward, his curses muffled by the mane of the horse.

“Next time, I’m staying with the carriage.” Jefferson told him, nursing his groin with his hand.

Chortling, Rumford glanced over at Jefferson, failing not to find amusement in his friend’s discomfort. With a slight smirk, Rumford turned his gaze back to the road in front of them. They rode the short distance to the top of the hill in silence, it was then, at the top, the manor was revealed to them. It was a modest size, two floors, with a courtyard attached to the right of the building, a large side gate at the side was the only entrance. The manor was painted yellow, a beacon in the dull evening sunshine. There was a large gravel area at the front of the house, which seemed to swallow up the road and spat it out on the other side, cutting a path into the opposing hillside. The gardens at the back of the house were barely visible on their angle, but the hillside, further in the distance, was clearly seen. ‘ _ Is that the sea?’ _ , he asked himself.

“Salvation.” Jefferson declared. 

Rumford glanced at Jefferson. “We’ll see. Depends how hospitable the Viscount is feeling.”

He gently kicked at the sides of his horse, increasing its pace, and rode on to the manor. When they were about halfway there, Rumford spotted someone in the front doorway, maybe a footman, and then they quickly turned, disappearing into the manor. He could just imagine the hive of activity going on inside the house. The hushed whispers of the servants, passing on the whisper of an un-expectant visitor, rushing to get things organised for their arrival. His eye was caught by movement at the side gate as he tugged on the reins, easing his horse to a slow trot. A man stepped out, looking directly at them.

“I need to get off.” Jefferson stated to him as they approached the gravel area in front of the house.

The man at the side of the house began to approach them, walking a path to intercept them before they reached the front door. Rumford was wary of the welcome they were about to receive. The memories of a little boy and his father being chased away, shouted at to stay away, haunted him.

There was a loud crunch behind Rumford and an almighty groan. “Oh my god!”

He casted his gaze behind him to see Jefferson’s horse missing its rider. Tugging on the reins, Rumford stopped his horse, looking to the man, who was striding towards them, giving Jefferson a very questioning look. He threw his right leg up and over the horse, and slid off the side of the horse, landing beside the horse. The horse let out an appreciative chuff to the pat Rumford gave it on its neck. The feel of the horse’s cost, silky smooth, took him back to that day with the Earl, and he smiled at the memory of his father, missing him.

“Rumford, I think I’ve done something to myself.” Jefferson said, ending the sentence with a groan.

“What?” Rumford questioned, turning away from his horse to walk around Jefferson’s and stopped, kicking up some of the gravel.

Confronted by the sight of his friend, squatted down beside his horse, his hand massaging, tugging, manipulating his privates, was not what Rumford had expected to see. Or wanted to see. Jefferson let out an animalistic moan.

“I think one of my balls has gone up inside.” Jefferson’s face was screwed up in some kind of expression of pain… pleasure… agony? 

Rumford strongly shook his head at his friend, reaching for the reins of Jefferson’s horse, as he said. “Stop… whatever you’re doing and walk it off.”

“This is so painful!” Jefferson whined.

“Do I need to remind you that you’re the heir to Viscount Mandermer’s estate, and should behave in a proper manner? What would your father say, if he saw you? Or your mother?” Rumford scolded Jefferson as he grabbed the reins for his own horse and began to lead them to the man coming towards them. “Just walk it off!”

He glanced back to see Jefferson stand up and begin to follow, and then squatted after a few steps, repeating his earlier action. Disbelieving his friend, Rumford shook his head, wondering how they ever became friends in the first place. 

The man bowed his head to Rumford. “M’ Lord, Viscount French will be out shortly to greet you. May I take your horses?”

“Yes, you may. Thank you.” He passed the reins to the man.

Tugging down his waistcoat, Rumford stood and watched the horses follow the man one die fly, while sensing Jefferson at his side. At the front door, a man came out of the manor, casting his gaze around until it came to them, and set off towards them, crossing paths with the man leading the horses away. Slyly glancing at Jefferson, who was already doing the same, they shrugged their shoulders at each other. 

“I am Baron Saffroy.” The man stated, introducing himself. “Would you care to introduce yourself and the intent of your visit?”

His lips formed into a sly smile at the Baron’s introduction. There was a very quiet ‘ _ oh’ _ from Jefferson. Squinting his gaze, Rumford inspected the man before him - a red tailored coat with a distastefully long coat tail, a gold waistcoat that was obscene, his boots polished within an inch of their life. Lifting his eyes from the Baron’s boots, he could see the Baron had broad shoulders and with the way the material was taught over his arms, the Baron was quite muscular. Rumford could see the ladies would find him quite attractive. However, taking in all these factors, Rumford already knew what sort of man the Baron was: an arrogant ass.

Rumford gave the man the shortest curt nod known to man and stepped past him, his reply being. “I care not to introduce myself or the intent of my visit to you.”

“I beg your pardon!” The Baron exclaimed.

The footman, Rumford had seen earlier, was standing by the doorway, dutifully waiting for them. Advancing on the innocent footman, he ignored the bristle calls of the Baron, demanding to know if he knew who he was. Such an insignificant Baron, of course, Rumford had no clue, who he was and did not care either. Arrogant indeed.

He footman visibly swallowed as Rumford bowed his head to the young man and introduced himself. “I am Lord Gold, the Earl of the Frontlands, is your Lord at home?”

“Yes, M’ Lord.” The footman bowed his head. “If I may, shall introduce you to Viscount French, M’ Lord?”

“Yes, you may.” Rumford showed the young footman a brief smile.

Whipping round on his heels, the footman entered the manor, opening the door wide to grant Rumford entry. He followed the young man inside, letting his gaze travel around the foyer as he crossed the threshold. The Baron was hot on his heels, his chest puffed out like some buffoon trying to prove his dominance. Barely turning his head, Rumford peered at the Baron from the corner of his eye, smirking, whilst the egotistical bastard strutted after the footman, who was talking to a larger man at the bottom of the stairs. 

“M’ Lord, may I introduce, Lord Gold, Earl of the Frontlands?” The footman bowed, sweeping his arm to indicate Rumford. 

“My Lord.” Lord French bowed.

Inclining himself forward into a gracious bow, Rumford averted his gaze to the floor and then stood, saying. “It is an honour to meet you, Lord French.” Swivelling on his feet, Rumford motioned to Jefferson with his hand. “I’d like to introduce you to my companion, Mister Mandermer, heir to Viscount Mandermer?”

“Mister Mandermer, a pleasure.” Lord French inclined himself into a bow.

“My pleasure is mine, Lord French.” Jefferson bowed, flourishing an arm through the air. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I was not expecting your arrival.” Lord French said, coming to stand in front of Rumford, while the footman returned to his post

Rumford shook his head, laying a hand on his chest, apologising. “No, no, Lord French, it is I who is at fault, coming to your home without an invitation.”

Lord French smiled, appreciating the apology, while the Baron had his fists propped on his hips, chest puffed out, seething at not being introduced. It was times like these, when Rumford got under a man’s skin, which he enjoyed the most. If he had been more gracious, instead of presuming he was above them, Rumford could’ve excused his behaviour under the unusual circumstances of their meeting. He didn’t tolerate rude behaviour and certainly had no patience for arrogant bastards.

“If we hadn’t had a bother with our carriage, I wouldn’t have been forced to come to your home unannounced, Lord French, to which I offer my apologies.” He said to explain their unplanned visit.

Something above caught his eye, two heads, one brown, the other black, peeping from the cover of the banister. From his angle, he couldn’t see much of them, but from their hair, he would assume they were women or young girls. Probably young maids of the house, intrigued by the un-expectant visitors. He smiled, reminded of the children doing the same thing, hiding on the landing above, spying down on the adults. Though, the tops of the heads he could see, were more adult size than that of a child.

Lord French shook his head. “It’s no bother at all, my Lord. I’m more than happy to welcome you both into my home.”

“Thank you, Lord French, I greatly appreciate this kindness and hope I can return your kindness in the future.” Rumford bowed his head, sincerely appreciating Lord French’s kindness.

The Baron edged closer to Lord French, angling himself in favour of the Lord, but saying loud enough for everyone to hear. “French, maybe the two gentlemen would care for a drink.”

Rumford understood immediately what this display meant - I am part of this household. Which then leaned Rumford to believe, Lord French had a daughter, who mustn’t have been made aware of their arrival. Unless… His gaze darted to the top of the heads, he could just about see, and assumed one of those heads was Lord French’s daughter. 

“Yes, I’m sure they would.” Lord French nodded his agreement to the Baron’s suggestion. “We’ll be having dinner soon, but if you’d like to follow us to the drawing room, my Lord, I could offer you a refreshment before dining.”

“Sounds most agreeable, doesn’t it, Jefferson?” Rumford turned to Jefferson.

Jefferson smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

One of the heads sprung up, from their hiding spot, revealing a beautiful young woman with luscious curls of brown hair. Rumford sucked a breath in through his teeth. She was absolutely stunning. There was no finer woman in all the lands. He wouldn’t dare to compare her beauty to anyone else, it would be unfair to compare another woman’s beauty to hers. She was a goddess and he was her disciple.

“Delightful.” Lord French asserted. “If you’d like to come this way.”

Disturbed from his worship of her, Rumford dropped his gaze to her father, beckoning them with his arm to follow him and the Baron. Thrusting for more of her, his gaze rose rapidly to where she had been standing, to find she was gone. He blinked his eyes, sceptical he had actually witnessed such a gorgeous creature. His chest heaved, frantic to see a trace of her.

The slap of his friend’s hand on his shoulder, brought him back down from heaven, because certainly that could be the only place, he could’ve glimpsed her. “I think a very large brandy is exactly what I need.”

“Yes…” Rumford allowed his friend to guide him. “Very large, indeed.”

Jefferson used his hand on Rumford to bring his friend closer, whispering into his ear. “What an ass!”

“Most definitely.” He agreed, craning his neck to see up the stairs, eager to see her again.

“Are you going to introduce yourself to him, or not?” Jefferson asked in a hushed voice. “Or are you going to prolong it, like you did that Mr Winters?”

Rumford tore from the stairs and looked at Jefferson. “Mr Winters?”

Jefferson nudged his shoulder into him. “Yes, Mr Winters. The Dolchester ball last year, the man literally tore you off Lord Fletcher’s wife as you dancing, and introduced himself to you. Remember?”

“Vaguely…” A slow grin pushed back his cheeks, creasing the lines by his eyes. “I remember Lord Fletcher’s wife, though.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jefferson mirrored his own grin.

Ahead of them, Lord French came to a stop outside of a doorway, while the Baron proudly walked into the room as if he owned the place.

“My Lord, if it pleases you, I can send some of men in the morning to collect your carriage and take it to the local blacksmith in Avonlea.” Lord French paused in thought and said. “I’m assuming your driver has remained with the carriage and your belongings, as I see you only have the clothes on your back.” Lord French deducted.

“Yes, Lord French, you are correct and that would be incredible helpful. Thank you.” Rumford bowed his head.

Lord French brow narrowed. “It may take a few days until it is repaired…” He smiled, stretching out a welcoming arm. “You must stay here with us until it is repaired.”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude, my Lord.” Jefferson said.

“Not at all. It’ll be good to have some new company.” Lord French insisted.

“You’re most gracious, Lord French.” Rumford told him, bowing to the other gentleman.

Jefferson waved for Rumford to proceed him into the room. Nodding at his friend, Rumford entered the drawing room, running his eye around the room. It was a modest drawing room. A small piano in the corner of the room, two armchairs either side of the fireplace, a sofa either side of the room with a large coffee table, decorated with a display of wildflowers. ‘ _ I bet she picked those.’ _ , he assumed, skimming his fingertips over the display, touching some of the flowers. There were three French doors, leading out to the courtyard. It was as he was inspecting them, he noticed it was now dusk outside, streams of red and orange decorated sky, a stunning display of exquisiteness. ‘ _ Not as stunning as she, though’ _ , Rumford thought, turning his back to the scene outside.

“Brandy, my Lord?” Lord French inquired.

Rumford smiled. “That would be perfect.”

Lord French kindly returned his smile, poured a measure of the brandy into a glass, passed it to the Baron and motioned for the Baron to deliver the glass to Rumford. The look on the Baron’s face showed his distaste at being made to serve, but regardless of his feelings, he brought the drink over to Rumford, glowering at him. The glass was thrusted at Rumford, sloshing the brandy up the sides of the glass.

He waited.

The tension in the Baron’s frown steadily eased, while his eyes darted between the glass in his hand and Rumford. He made no move to take the glass. Biding his time, Rumford observed the Baron, deliberating with himself, whether it was breeding or the man’s upbringing that had made him a pompous ass. The glass of brandy was shoved towards him again, sloshing the dark liquid around the glass. Rumford considered the possibility that it may have been a little of both, while the Baron half turned to look at Lord French, who was conversing with Jefferson about a decanter of whiskey. Lifting his hand to his face, stroking his finger along the edge of his upper lip, Rumford grinned at the Baron, who had mistaken his action for acceptance of the brandy.

“My Lord, you should really try the brandy.” Jefferson informed him, sidling by the Baron to stand at Rumford’s side. “It’s deliciously sweet and smells divine.”

Rumford accepted the hint. “A high recommendation.” He reached for the glass and took it from the Baron. “My thanks, Lord French.”

“If you like it, my Lord, I can procure a bottle for you.” Lord French proposed as he sat down into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

Jaw clenched shut, the Baron stalked away from Rumford to the drinks trolley, forced to serve himself. Carefully, he watched the younger man, taking a sip from his brandy. ‘ _ She couldn’t possibly be infatuated with this buffoon.’, _ Rumford thought, savouring the taste of the brandy. It was rather delicious.

Jefferson stepped closer, leaning in to whisper into Rumford’s ear. “Don’t toy with him too much.”

“Why would I ever do such a thing?” Rumford asked dryly, sharing a sly look with Jefferson.

“Before your arrival, Gaston was entertaining me with the tale of his latest hunting expedition.” Lord French shared with them before angling himself to see the Baron at the drinks trolley. “While we’re waiting for Belle and the call for dinner, why don’t you share you story with our guests?”

The Baron smiled smugly. “Of course, French.”

Hunting, not a sport neither Rumford or Jefferson enjoyed. Evidently, from the sickly grin on the Baron’s face, it was a sport the Baron relished. Jefferson rolled his eyes as he sauntered by Rumford, opting to take the other armchair in front of the fire. Sipping his brandy, Rumford followed the Baron with his eyes to the fireplace, where the man smugly readied himself to regal his story, laying his arm along the mantel above the fireplace. He would rather pull his teeth out, than listen to someone prattle on about hunting. Why anyone would want to go traipsing through the woods, in the cold and the wet, chasing a defenceless animal, who was just trying to tend to their young, was beyond Rumford. He’d spent enough nights in his previous life, chilled to the bone, shaking uncontrollably, to ever want to go wandering off into the woods for a pointless endeavour.

Rumford opted to distract himself and turned to the French windows, and stepped by the sofa to proceed to the doors, sipping his brandy. Gazing out one of the panes, he breathed heavily out of his nose, settling his gaze on the horizon of red and orange. He wondered, if she was upstairs gazing at the same sight as him. The idea of having a possible connection with her, set his stomach off into quite a stir. So much so, Rumford worried the brandy had upset his stomach and laid his hand on top of his waistcoat, nursing the queer feeling. His eyebrows partially pinched together, unsure of the strange feeling in his gut.

Choosing not to think about it, he lowered his hand and straightened himself, hearing his father’s voice, ‘ _ Don’t slouch, stand proudly, Rumford, you’ll be an Earl one day’ _ . He raised his glass and drank the sweet nectar, wordlessly toasting his father. Jefferson was right, Rumford decided, it really was deliciously sweet. Swirling the contents of his glass, he examined the amber fluid as it rose up the sides of the glass, appearing translucent. There were remnants of the brandy on his lips, he could feel their wetness, and dipped the tip of his tongue out of his mouth to trace his lip, savouring the sweet taste.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His brow narrowed for a second, the sensation odd to him. He couldn’t describe it, but he had an overwhelming need, to look to the doorway as though his life depended on it. Turning his head, Rumford was hit deep in his gut, distilling the butterflies in his stomach, spellbound by the deep ocean blue of her eyes. She was real, he hadn’t imagined her. His heart fluttered at the blatant truth standing inside the doorway.

“Ah!” Lord French got up from his armchair. “My Lord, if I may, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Belle.”

‘ _ Belle.’ _ , he repeated her name in his head, even though, he really wanted to say her name aloud, hear how it sounded with his rough brogue. It wouldn’t sound very pleasant, but he wanted to say her name, over and over again. Whisper her name into her ear, caressing her with her exquisite name. He would drive her mad, murmuring her name against the delicate lips hidden between her thighs, tipping her over the edge with a single syllable, ‘ _ Belle’. _ Then, when he was desperately in need of release, he would yell out her name, crying out for her to save him, to bring him back from the darkness of his ecstasy. The left side of his lips twitched into half a smile, knowing she would save him, without hesitation she would save him.

Bowing at his hips, he reluctantly lowered his gaze to the floor. “It is my honour, Lady French.”

“Belle, this is the Earl of the Frontlands, Lord Gold.” Her father stated, holding a hand out to present him to his daughter.

Rumford reclined himself, instantly lifting his gaze to her, greedily needing her in his sights, as he stood to his full height. Respectfully, Lady French lowered herself into her curtsy, dipping her gaze to the large rug. She was breath-taking, with or without her dress, she would be breath-taking. Though, he rather liked the image of her being without her dress. Rumford grinned as Lady French began to rise from her curtsy and her eyes flashed up to meet his gaze, causing his breath to hitch in his chest.

Lord French proudly introduced Jefferson to his daughter. “Mister Mandermer, my daughter, Belle.”

As per usual, Jefferson waved his hand around in a showily manner as he bent to bow to Lady French, smiling at her. “My Lady.”

His chest heaved under his shirt, hot and bothered by her gaze. Raising his brandy glass to his lip, he sipped the sweet beverage and swallowed the cool liquid, feeling it travel all the way down into his stomach. He wondered, if she would taste as sweet as the brandy, and sneaked the tip of his tongue out, to lick the remains of the brandy from his lip, pretending it was her delicious essence he was tasting on his lip.

**_Cough_ **

The unexpected sound brought Rumald out of his stupor and his gaze to Lord French. Her father’s eyes were bulging out of his face, his head nodding firmly in his direction. Squinting his gaze at her father, Rumford thought it quite peculiar, for her father, to being such a thing. It was then, the Baron caught Rumford’s eye, the intent behind his glare clear as day. The Baron must have seen the way Rumford had been looking at Lady French. A curt nod to the Baron made the young man bristle, throwing his arm down from the mantel to his side, ready to stomp his foot like a petulant child.

Smirking, Rumford moved his gaze back to Lady French. Her gaze travelled from her father to Jefferson, and then to him, sending his stomach into somersaults. Suddenly, Lady French stumbled a step into the room, but whirled round, facing whoever was in the doorway behind her. Her beautiful forehead was creased in a frown, when she pivoted round to face the room.

“My apologies, my Lord,” She stooped into another curtsy. “I was not aware, we would be receiving visitors this evening.”

Her accent was heavenly to Rumford’s ears. His shoulders slumped, the muscles in his back, his arms, his whole body, relaxed at hearing her pleasing tone. She must have been gifted by God.

“Lord Gold and Mister Mandermer have had some trouble with their carriage.” Lord French explained. “I’ve invited them to stay with us until their carriage is repaired.”

Rumford acknowledged this, with a curt nod of his head to Lord French. Twirling the brandy glass in his hand, he watched the whirlpool, seeing what he was feeling in his gut. At the back of his neck, the small hairs lifted to stand on their ends. The strong urge to look to the doorway, to look at her, festered deep in his soul. He couldn’t ignore the scalding burn, creeping its way up the dip in his back. He had to look at her, needed to look at her. Lifting his gaze, his eyes met hers and he smiled. Then, too quickly, she averted her gaze from him, breaking their connection. 

“My Lady Belle,” Rumford had forgotten about the Baron. “I was reminiscing about the time, I wrestled that large stag with my bare hands.” He informed Lady French. “You remember the stag? His head hangs in the entryway at home, remember?”

Intrigued to see what her reaction was, Rumford observed her and could tell by her awkward smile, she didn’t share Baron’s love for hunting, as she said. “Of course, my Lord.”

A hand reached out and touched Lady French’s arm. Her head turned, giving him full advantage to see the nape of her neck. Rumford swallowed hard. The delicate slant of her neck called to him, inviting him to come and dine on her neck, giving her pleasure, a lady, such as herself, would be oblivious of and that he knew he could give her.

Lady French said to her father. “Mrs Lucas is ready to serve, papa.”

“Wonderful.” Lord French held his arms out wide and clapped his hands together. “You’re in for a treat, my Lord and Mr Mandermer, Mrs Lucas’s cooking is superb.”

Rumford threw back his brandy as Lady French dashed out of the room, sending his stomach reeling at her absence. His brow creased at the unusual feelings, she had been making him feel since he first caught a glimpse of her in the foyer. He was well aware of what lust felt like, but this… This was something new. Something Rumford hadn’t experienced before and it scared him, yet he was thrilled at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a restless night and it's all his fault, 'Damn, that man!'.

Though her curtains blocked a considerable amount of light, plunging her chambers into darkness, there was an aura of light surrounding the curtains, allowing her to see the outlines of the furniture in her room. Belle lay on her side, clutching the pillow underneath her head, her legs slightly drawn up, distantly gazing at the wall in front of her. Sleep had eluded her. She had tossed and turned, grunted, thrown a pillow off the bed, tossed and turned some more, catching small snippets of sleep. It had still been dark outside, when she had given up on trying to sleep and laid there, staring at the wall. 

He haunted her. Whenever she closed her eyes, he was there, waiting for her with his sly smile. How could a man’s smile have so much power over her? It was only two lips, two pieces of flesh and muscle, contorting and contracting themselves into what was recognised as a facial expression. There was no mystery behind it. Everyone had the capability to do it and each one was unique to its owner. Yet, the smile that belonged to him, fascinated her. She had covertly watched him as he had conversed across the table with Mr Mandermer, smiling from time to time. The dimples, which formed in his cheeks, were the first indication he was about to smile. Then slowly, purposefully, the corners of his mouth would draw themselves out, pushing back his cheeks before his top lip would lift, revealing his teeth.

His other smile, the one that bothered her the most, was what she could only describe as an impish grin. It was very similar to his normal smile, to his kind smile. Except this one, only drew back one side of his mouth, the left side, and when his teeth were revealed, it darkened his smile, causing the rest of his face to become menacing. It should’ve startled her, which was probably its intent, but it didn’t. If anything, she wanted to trace it with her fingertip, following the line of his lips, the natural crease in his cheek and the touch the dip in his cheek. And that was exactly what she did, whenever she had closed her eyes, relinquishing herself to sleep, but instead, she had surrendered herself to the cruelty of her imagination.

Taking in a steadying breath, her heart raced as she recalled the dream of him, stood before her, smiling that smile, which made her insides quiver. Lord Gold wouldn’t say anything, didn’t move, while his eyes intently watched her as she softly touched the tip of her finger to his face, following the edge of his lower lip. She’d flick her gaze up to meet his eyes, seeing acceptance and kindness in eyes, with something else loitering in the darkness of his eyes. It wouldn’t frighten her. It would stoke the fire of her curiosity, pushing her on to explore more of him, whilst her finger mapped the curve of the fold in his cheek, down from his nose to where it faded out by his chin. When she’d move her finger to the dimple in his cheek, his hand would capture hers and direct her finger to his mouth. He’d take the whole of her finger into his mouth, sealing his lips around it. Between that and the hunger in his dark eyes, she’d blow out a breath, feeling hot from the heat of his gaze. His tongue would graze delightfully about her finger as he deliberately withdrew it. Much like in her dream, Belle bit hard into her lower lip, firmly pressing her thighs together, enjoying a wave of pleasure from her core. 

Turning her face into her pillow, Belle let out a frustrated groan, wanting to understand how he had done this to her. She had met many gentlemen in her life, through balls they had attended or when her father had visited the capital on business. Lord Gold was no different to any of those men: he had a head, two arms, two hands, two legs and two feet. There was nothing about him that put him above anyone else, apart from his title, and she had met Dukes and Marquesses, so it wasn’t his title and it narked her to consider it. Status wasn’t what made a man, something Gaston did not understand. No, it wasn’t that, she was sure of it.

Belle rolled onto her back, her gaze on the ceiling above her four posted bed. A slow smile spread her lips as what happened at dinner came to the forefront of her mind. She’d entered the dining room before anyone else as etiquette directed her to do. Wrangling back a sense of control over herself, Belle had rounded the table to the head of the table, waving a pointed finger as she berated herself on her poor behaviour. Her mother would’ve been appalled, if she had known what thoughts were going through her daughter’s head. She had taken in a breath, steadying herself, whilst she had pulled out her chair from the table and stepped in front of it, ready to be seated.

His footsteps had clicked on the floorboards as he had sauntered in the dining room, hands clasped behind his back, appearing very noble. Slowly his eyes had taken in the room, passing from the paintings, to the ornaments on the large sideboard, to the large mirror above the fireplace behind her, and then to her. Lord Gold’s chest had swelled under his coat before coolly deflating. He had smiled ‘that’ smile at her, whilst circling the table, striding to the seat to her right.

Politely, Lord Gold had bent his head forward. “My Lady.”

She’d bashfully smiled at him, imprinting his smile to memory, while the others came into the room. Gaston had proceeded her father and Mr Mandermer into the room and stopped dead, when he had seen Lord Gold in his usual spot at the table. His chin had jutted out, defiant, as he moved to claim the seat on her left side.

He had reached his hand out, to take possession of the seat, when Lord Gold had said. “I believe, you’re mistaken, sir, you should take a seat closer to Lord French.”

“I beg your pardon!” Gaston had spat. “I always sit beside Lady Belle.”

Lord Gold had explained his point, whilst Belle’s attention had bounced between them. “Yes, but given the circumstances, you being of lesser title, you should relinquish your seat to your superior.”

“You have a seat!” Gaston had flung his hand angrily through the air.

Tipping his head to the side, admiring the chair in front of him, Lord Gold’s lips had formed into an impish grin as he brought his gaze up to meet Gaston’s, laying his hand possessively on the chair, claiming the spot at her side. Out of the corner of her eye, Gaston had recoiled his head back, straining the muscles in his neck. She had never seen Gaston so insulted by someone. Normally, his air of arrogance was so thick, he wasn’t able to see anything but his own reflection. How Lord Gold had managed, to get through the dense fog of Gaston’s arrogance, was a mystery all on its own.

“He’s referring to me.” Mr Mandermer had said, appearing next to Gaston, placing his hand on top of the chair to claim it. 

“Err… Wha…” Gaston had looked from Mr Mandermer to Lord Gold. “You can’t be serious? I’m Baron Saffroy!”

Nudging his head to the side, Lord Gold’s grin had grown, revealing the glint of a gold tooth. “So you’ve said.”

Gaston had whirled round to face her father. “French, are you seriously not going to say anything? This is your house!”

“It is my house, Saffroy, but etiquette is etiquette.” Her father had said, standing at the head of the table, waiting to take his seat.

“Besides that, I think the Lady would appreciate an evening of stimulating conversation.” Lord Gold had added, making Mr Mandermer snigger, but under Lord Gold’s breath, Belle had heard him say. “Rather than listening to your trivial hunting stories.”

“Let’s sit down, I’m hungry.” Her father had suggested, encouraging everyone to take their seats with a wave of his hand.

She had swept her hands down the back of her skirts, preparing to take her seat, and had peeped at Gaston. His brow was stooped heavily over his eyes, darkening them, as he had stared openly at Lord Gold, a look of hatred in his eyes. Belle lowered herself to sit, sure they’d be hearing about Gaston’s outrage on every foreseeable visit. Just as her backside was about to make contact with the chair, she had felt the chair be pushed forward, taking her off her feet and pushing her closer to the table. Alarmed, Belle had peered over her shoulder, finding Lord Gold behind her, smiling kindly at her.

Belle covered her eyes with her arm, in a hopeless attempt, to block out the image of his smile, whilst she muttered under her breath. “God pray tell; why does this man provoke me?”

She didn’t know why she was trying to converse with God. He hadn’t thought it prudent to answer her questions in the past. Even when she had visited the small chapel on the estate, beseeching him on her knees, to know why he had to take her mother from her, why it couldn’t have been her instead. No amount of worship had made a difference to her plight. He hadn’t answered her then, so he most certainly wasn’t going to answer her now.

The sound of the door handle creaking as it was turned, caught Belle’s attention. Lifting her arm from her face, she was barely able to make out the door opening and closing, emitting a figure into her room. Her heart thumped and her groin clenched at the thought it was him. She should scream, alert the household to the intrude in her room, in her thoughts, but she bit her lower lip at the thought of him coming to her. Maybe, it wasn’t one sided. He wasn’t able to resist his thoughts anymore and had come to seek her out, to confess his illicit thoughts, desiring her to cleanse him of these images that had plagued his dreams.

Bright light flooded the room. after one of the curtains was flung back, revealing it was Ruby, who had entered her room, coming to wake her and help her prepare for the day. Ashamed of her daydream, Belle smothered her face with her hands, the burn of her embarrassment hot to the palm of her hands. She heard Ruby draw the opposing curtain, allowing more light into the room.

Ruby wafted a hand at the curtain, removing a crease from the fabric, and turned to move onto the next set of curtains, saying in a raised voice. “Come on, sleepyhead! Time to get up!”

“I’m awake.” Belle’s voice was muffled behind her hands.

“That’s unusual for you.” Ruby commented as she pulled open the next set of curtains. “I was devising new ways of waking you up as I came upstairs.”

Belle removed her hands from her face and dropped them onto the bed. “I haven’t really slept.”

“It took a while for some of the younger maids to fall asleep.” She grinned over her shoulder as she grasped the edge of the curtain, saying. “Granny stormed into their room and threatened them with her ladle, if they didn’t shut up and go to sleep.” Ruby threw the curtain aside, drawing the last curtain. “Thankfully, they stayed quiet and went to sleep, allowing the rest of us to go to sleep.”

“How terrible for everyone.” Belle remarked, throwing back the covers to climb out of bed.

Ruby shrugged off Belle’s comment as she grabbed the bedcovers and started making the bed. “Didn’t bother me. I’d snuck out to meet Peter. I just hadn’t expected everyone to still be up, when I came back.”

Belle shook her head, whilst she was helping Ruby, pulling the bedcovers taught on her side. “If Granny catches you again, Peter is going to end up in her meat pies.”

“I was careful.” Ruby said, smoothing a hand over the bed.

Giving Ruby a knowing look, Belle picked up her hairbrush from the bedside and ran the sharp pins through her hair. “I know exactly, what your careful entails. One day, you’ll be announcing you’re with child and Granny will be demanding my father’s rifle.”

“Once, he’s got enough money and a place of his own, it’ll be fine.” Ruby stated, smiling, but Belle could see, Ruby was saying it more for her own benefit than Belle’s.

As Belle flicked her hair over her shoulder, chasing the knots out of her hair, Ruby finished making the bed and started towards the dressing room, asking. “Any preference on what you want to wear today?”

“Not really.” Belle followed Ruby with her gaze, skimming her hand down her hair as she brushed it.

Stopping in the doorway to the dressing room, Ruby laid her hand on the wall of the doorway, probing Belle. “Blue, red, yellow…?” Belle shrugged her shoulders. “You’re not being helpful.”

“Sorry, but whatever you choose will be fine.” Belle braced a smile at her friend.

Ruby smiled. “A red dress, because it's the favourite colour of your suitor.”

“Ha!” Belle barked a sarcastic laugh. 

“I’ll pick you a blue dress since I know he dislikes it.” Ruby’s smile became sinister as she backed away into the dressing room and disappeared into the room.

Putting her hairbrush onto the bedside, next to her book, Belle gathered the hem of her nightdress and pulled it up and over her head, shaking it out to fold it and stuff under the covers of her bed. The room wasn’t cold with the early morning sunshine, coming in through the windows. Nevertheless, Belle shivered, goosebumping the skin on the backs of her arms. Crossing her arms, trying to conserve some warmth, Belle rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms, encouraging the bumps to go, while she walked around the bed to sit at the foot of it. Her thumb unintentionally grazed the side of breast, making her jolt and bite her lower lip at the sensation. An image of Lord Gold stroking his fingers along the path of her thumb leapt to mind. She closed her eyes, repeating the action, finely stroking the tip of her thumb up her breast, visualising it was him, stood behind her, caressing her as his lips kiss wet open mouth kisses to her neck.

Ruby came out of the dress room with Belle’s undergarments and a blue dress in her arms, a pair of shoes hooked on her fingers. “The men were sitting down for breakfast as I was coming up.”

Startled, Belle flung her arms away and whirled round to face her bed, smoothing out the creases in the covers. “Are they? Bit early for papa, isn’t it?”

“From what I overheard, your father’s going to ride out with Lord Gold, taking some of the men to fetch their carriage and their belongings.” Ruby dumped the contents of her arms onto the bed and the shoes to the floor, oblivious to Belle and her embarrassment.

“Is Mr Mandermer not going?” Belle inquired, trying not to think of Lord Gold’s hands.

Ruby’s brow creased in thought. “I don’t think, he’s going. Sounded like he wanted to remain here.”

“At least, that’ll give me some company other than Gaston’s.” Belle supposed.

“I’m not too sure, Mr Mandermer could protect you from Gaston, he doesn’t seem that… sort. You know, for conflict.” Ruby said, picking up the corset from the pile of clothes.

Belle turned round and held her arms out of the way, allowing Ruby to wrap the corset around her. “Nothing wrong with that. A gentleman shouldn’t need to resort to violence.”

“You ought to tell Gaston that.” Ruby joked and said. “Hold that there.”

Placing her hand on the corset, Belle adjusted her breasts in the cups of the corset, while Ruby began the long task of lacing the flaps of the corset. She hated this bit of getting dressed. Not because of the restrictiveness of the corset, but because it took so long to put the damn thing on in the morning. It was the best part of the day, when she came to bed and Ruby unlaced her. Though, last night had been… different.

Naughtily, she had pictured it was Lord Gold plucking the lashes of lace, freeing her from her constraints as Ruby had removed it. His long thin fingers would have made light work of it, stood close behind her, swamping her with his oaky fragrance with a hint of citrus. She’d smelt it, when she had been entertaining them, playing the piano in the drawing room, while they had enjoyed glass a brandy. He had stood behind her, listening to her play. Belle hadn’t been certain about how close he had been standing to her, but she could only imagine it had been close, since the smell of him had been so strong, like it had been at dinner. Whilst she had played, she had silently begged for him to touch her, to lay a finger on her shoulder, just so she could feel the plainest of his touches.

“I don’t think Lord Gold is coming back with them.” Ruby interrupted her musing.

“What?” Belle twirled to face Ruby. “Where’s he going?”

Ruby rolled her eyes and spun Belle back round, telling her. “They were talking about him going to Bolster.”

“Bolster? Isn’t there a cotton factory there?” Belle posed her questions to Ruby, twisting her head to see her.

Ruby continued to weave the laces through the corset as she answered. “Yes, I think so.”

“That’s a few hours ride from here.” Belle surmised, turning her head to face forward. 

“Probably why they’re all up.” Ruby’s hand was cold on her skin. “Breathe in.”

Belle sucked in a breath, narrowing her stomach, and held it, whilst Ruby tugged and yanked the lashes of lace, gradually tightening the corset. Wrenched backwards a few times, she anchored herself by wrapping her arms around a post of the four posted bed. She had gotten so caught up in Lord Gold, she had forgotten that he had a life, outside of the four walls of her father’s house. Which did nothing more than to add to the mystery of him and drive her to want to know more about him.

“There we go.” Ruby touched Belle’s shoulder, signalling the corset was done. “Sit down and I’ll put your stockings on.”

Belle did as she was instructed, whilst Ruby carefully picked up to two silk stockings and knelt on the floor, as Belle pondered. “I wonder what business Lord Gold has in Bolster.”

“That’s the fifth time, you’ve mentioned him.” Ruby grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. 

“I’m just curious.” Belle stated, giving Ruby a pointed look.

Ruby tipped her head to the side, thinking. “Maybe he’s got business at the factory or he’s visiting someone…” Gathering one of the stockings in her hands, preparing to feed it onto Belle’s foot, Ruby enquired. “Doesn’t Lady Griffiths and her daughter live near Bolster?”

“I believe so, why?” Belle positioned her foot ready for Ruby.

Her shoulder raised and fell as Ruby suggested. “Maybe he’s visiting Lady Griffiths or her daughter.”

The idea repulsed her. Lord Gold couldn’t be interested in them. Lady Griffiths was old, too old, for him. She was well beyond the age of bearing children, her youthful looks were hidden behind long, deep lines of age, and was so preoccupied with her pet dog, wedged under her arm all the time, she had no time for anyone, including her own daughter. On the occasions, they had met, Belle had found it difficult to remain polite as the woman would rudely talk to her dog instead. At the bequest of her father, she had bitten her tongue, being the perfect ideal of a young lady. And if it was Lady Griffiths’s daughter, then she would bore him, if she was brutally honest. Miss Griffiths was not hard on the eye, but she wasn’t well read and was very obnoxious. If she was suited to anyone, she should be matched with Gaston, but his vanity wouldn’t allow him to accept a bride so plain. 

“God forbid!” Belle exclaimed. 

Ruby chuckled as she worked the first stocking up Belle’s left leg. “I take it you disapprove of the match.”

“Disapprove?” Belle handed a garter to Ruby, so she could secure the stocking around Belle’s thigh. 

“She does have a lucrative estate, which would mean she would offer a sizable dowry for her daughter.” Ruby speculated, fastening the garter.

“I heavily doubt, Lord Gold, would need to consider someone’s fortune or dowry before he married.” Belle told Ruby, readying the next garter, whilst Ruby gathered the other stocking in her hands.

Ruby smirked. “We have assumed one thing, Belle.”

“What?” She bit.

Looking up at Belle, crooking one of her fine eyebrows, Ruby threw a low blow into Belle’s gut. “That Lord Gold isn’t married.”

“He…” She murmured, about to repeat what Ruby had said, needing to hear it from her own lips.

Belle hadn’t even considered that to be a possibility. He was older than she, handsome enough, seemed to be wealthy. There was no obvious reason why he wouldn’t have taken a wife or that his parents hadn’t arranged his joining with another. She scowled at the thought, jealous that there could possibly be a woman in his life, one he shared his life with, touched, kissed and shared a bed. The garter in her hands twisted easily as she wrung the life out of it. She didn’t want to think about him being with another.

“He could be.” Ruby held the stocking to Belle’s thigh, keeping it taut, and took the garter from Belle to secure it. 

‘ _Foolish girl_ ’, she chided herself, tightly pressing her lips into a thin line, clenching her small hands into fists, while Ruby put on her shoes. Closing her eyes, Belle couldn’t believe how much she invested herself into Lord Gold and she didn’t even know one thing about him. He was a stranger. Apart from polite conversation at the dinner table, what did she really know about him? Nothing. He hadn’t shared anything private with her. Hadn’t even suggested he was married or… Belle sucked in a breath at the thought, if he had children! This stranger had put a spell on her and invaded her thoughts and dreams, and she had foolishly let him!

Ruby climbed to her feet and grabbed the petticoat from the bed, and brunched the fabric up in her hands, as she said to Belle. “You’ve got a sour look on your face this morning.”

“Thanks, Rubes.” Belle scoffed. “I love you too.”

“It’s not my fault you look like that.” Ruby asserted, hooking the petticoat over Belle’s head. “What kept you up anyway? Were you thinking about your mother again?”

“I’m always thinking about my mother.” Belle confessed, slipping her arms, one by one, into the petticoat, and pulled it down to cover the corset.

Ruby’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry,” She wrapped her arms around Belle and brought her closer, hugging her as she rested her head against Belle’s. “I know you’re always thinking about her.”

It was probably a main point in their friendship that had brought the two girls closer. Ruby had been an infant, when her mother and father had been murdered. They’d been travelling back from the capital, collecting a shipment for her father, and it had gotten late. Nobody knew, why they didn’t stop at the last inn they passed. Maybe they wanted to get home as soon as they could, to see Ruby, or they thought they could make it, or naively thought nothing would happen to them. The highwaymen had ambushed them, taking her father’s shipment and the other supplies they had with them. The heroic notion was Ruby’s father had fought to protect her mother and their cargo, and that was the story, Ruby chose to believe. However, the stories Belle had read about highwaymen, was they had probably killed her father straight away and had their way with her mother before slitting her throat. She didn’t tell Ruby about these stories. Ignorance was blessing in Ruby’s case.

“I’m hungry.” Belle proclaimed, pulling back in Ruby’s embrace. “Let’s finish getting dress and get to breakfast.”

“Okay.” Ruby smiled sadly.

Turning to collect the dress from the bed, Ruby gathered the dress onto her arm and then held the skirt open for Belle. She slipped her arms through first, finding the sleeves of the dress, then dipped her head inside the skirt, navigating her way through to the other side. Ruby aided Belle, feeding the dress over her, helping it to slip down the petticoat. Belle grabbed at the sides of the dress, twisting and adjusting the fitment, until it sat comfortable on her. Stepping around Belle, Ruby skilfully hooked the clasps of the dress, fastening Belle into the dress.

“You better watch it, while your father’s out, you know Gaston’s going to try and get you alone, so he can propose to you.” Ruby advised her as she hooked the last clasp.

Belle stepped to half turn, saying to Ruby. “Hence why you and Mr Mandermer are going to be my main sources of company today.”

Ruby quirked an eyebrow. “Why don’t we just tell Granny, he inappropriately touched you, then she can beat him with a ladle?”

“As much as that might be a satisfying sight… I really wouldn’t want to get Granny into trouble.” She said, grinning at the image of Granny beating Gaston with her ladle.

“You could always tell your father or Lord Gold, I’m sure it’ll be just as satisfying to watch them beat him.” Ruby shrugged a shoulders and then asked. “Up or down?”

Belle frowned at the image of Lord Gold beating Gaston. “Down.”

“Come on then.” Ruby grasped Belle’s hand and led her to the door. “Let’s see what trouble we can get into today.”

Following obediently, Belle waited for Ruby to open the door to her chambers and went through the door after her, closing the door behind her. They fell into step together, Ruby slightly behind her, heading to the grand staircase. It was at the landing for the grand staircase, she heard his distinct brogue floating up from the foyer below. Her breath hitched, catching her off guard, and placed her hand on her chest as an ache developed deep in her belly.

At the top of the stairs, she observed her father and Lord Gold talking in the foyer, as her father changed from his shoes to his riding boots. He was stood near her father, who was sat on one of the benches, either side of the front door. His hands were clasped behind his back, allowing her to see, he was playing with the signet ring on his right little finger. She let her lips form into a small smile, contemplating if it was a nervous or impatient habit. Placing her hand on the banister, Belle began the descent down the stairs, taking a breath to calm herself. Seeing those hands in the flesh was increasing the ache in her belly. She squeezed her lips together and bit into her lower lip, vainly trying to distract herself from the need for him, for his touch, growing inside of her.

His head slanted down as though he was listening for a sound, but other than her father talking, there were no other sounds. Her shoes were cushioned by the red carpet, dampening the sounds of her steps. He couldn’t possibly hear her panted breath from where he stood, it was impossible. But he must have heard something, perking his attention, because he stepped round to face her, a smile promptly on his face. The aching in her belly exploded, pulsing a wave through her, sending a hot heat throughout her body.

“Good morning, my Lady.” Lord Gold courteously nodded his head to her.

Halfway down the stairs, she bobbed into a curtsy, saying to him. “Morning, my Lord.”

She was surprised, she had managed to sound normal and not invited him up her chambers, as he climbed some of the steps to offer his hand to her. “If I may…”

“Course.” Belle held her breath as she laid her hand into his open hand, staring at his thumb, when it gently met the knuckles of her fingers.

They came down the rest of the stairs together, Belle was eagerly minding their joined hands, resisting the urge to grasp his hand in hers. His hand was soft and firm, light bumps from callouses on the palm of his hand. Whenever a gentleman had offered his hand to her, their hands were always soft, never working a hard day in their life. A weak frown formed as she mused through the things that Lord Gold could do, which would cause him to hands of a working man.

“There you go, my Lady.” Lord Gold let go of her hand and politely smiled.

Belle immediately missed his touch, the warmth of his hand, the gentle way he had held her hand, the tingle she felt from the contact of his skin. The child in her, wanted to pout and stamp her foot, demanding he give his hand back to her. The young woman in her, desired to jump him, knocking him down onto the floor and making him put his hands on her. While last of all, the lady in her, discreetly regarded him, biding her time until the opportunity presented itself, where he would touch her again. Three parts of her were all striving to be the dominant, while she helplessly watched him take a step away from her, putting a small space between them.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” Her father asked, standing up from the bench.

“Fine, papa. You?” Belle lifted the front of her skirt, walking to stand near her father, receding away from her thoughts.

Her father held his hands out, titling his head to the side, as he proclaimed. “I always sleep well with a full belly and plenty of brandy.” Then he waved a hand to Lord Gold. “Although, Lord Gold was saying, he didn’t sleep very well last night. Went on a tour of the gardens in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Oh, no. I hope it wasn’t your room!” She blurted out, not really knowing what she was saying, flabbergasted to find out she wasn’t the only one awake last night.

He braced a strained smile, looking sheepish. “The bed was very comfortable. I think yesterday’s activities and the business I’ve got today, were just playing heavily on my mind.”

“We’ll have to make sure, he gets plenty of wine and brandy in him tonight, Belle, and he’ll sleep like a baby.” Her father boasted, pulling Belle into his side.

“That’s not always the answer, papa.” Belle admonished.

“No, but it works. Does it not, my Lord?” Her father squeezed her into his side, smiling at Lord Gold.

“That it does, Lord French.” He agreed, though Belle didn’t see it in his eyes.

“Anyway, my dear, we better be off, otherwise it’ll be nightfall before Lord Gold gets back.” Her father pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Belle smiled at him, peering at Lord Gold, who averted his gaze from her. “Be careful, papa.”

Her father smiled as he pivoted away from her, to go to the front door. “Always.”

The footman opened the door, bowing respectfully to her father and stood dutifully, holding the door open. Moving her gaze from her father to Lord Gold, she found he had taken a couple of steps, closing the space.

“My Lady.” Lord Gold bowed to her and followed her father through the open doorway.

Once they were through the door, the footman commenced with closing the door, and Belle waited until the door was finally closed before she moved. Wanting to savour every second, watching him talk to her father as they went to the horses, waiting for them outside. Her view narrowed with the impending closure of the door. She leaned, eager to keep sight of him, and thought for a second, he had turned to take one last look at her, but she couldn’t be certain, only catching the movement of his coat before the door was ultimately pushed closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After completing his deal, Rumford travels back to Lord French's estate and has an embarrassing moment with Lady French.

The noise of the machines was deafening in the narrow building. It was hot and humid with so many workers. The smell of them was very undesirable and many would’ve turned up their nose to them. Rumford wasn’t delusional. Fate may have stepped in and took him onto another path. Throwing him into a life of comfort and nobility, but these would always be his people. The young boys running dangerously in and around the machines could’ve easily had been him. Which was why he didn’t feel sorry for them as he gazed down from the walkway, on the workers below, working themselves to the bone for a bit of coin or food. Rumford admired them and their determination, to put food on the tables for their families. If his father had been only an ounce of what these people were, maybe their lives could’ve been different, but instead the scoundrel had abandoned him.

Rumford pushed himself off the railing and walked the walkway, back to the main platform, where he’d left the foreman talking to the previous owner. Clasping his hands behind his back, he worked his signet ring on his little finger, back and forth. He would’ve rather been downstairs, working his hands, than standing around like a gentleman. When his hands had nothing to do, he would become restless and agitated, and that was normally, when Mrs Potts ordered him out of the house.

“I’m quite satisfied with what I’ve seen.” Rumford informed them.

Coasting to a stop in front of them, the two men nodded and smiled, then smiled at each other, as the foreman said. “They’re good workers, M’ Lord, they won’t let you down.”

Rumford centred his gaze on the foreman. “See that they don’t. Otherwise, if they do, it’ll be your head, dearie.”

The foreman visibly swallowed. “Yes, M’ Lord.”

“I’m going to take my leave now. I’ve got a long ride ahead of me.” He told them, nodding his head to them. “Good day.”

“Good day, M’ Lord.” They said in unison, bowing in sync.

It was always a curious thing, when two random people fell into time with each other, but he held back showing his amusement, his face masked by a stern look. He turned to the stairs and descended them, his shoulders back, chin out, projecting the facade he was an Earl. Many of the workers flicked their gazes at him as he descended the stairs, taking a look at their new master, appearing indifferent to them. Being amongst them, the smell of their hard work was more potent, but he refused to hold his handkerchief to his nose. The men, women and children pouring their blood, sweat and tears into his pocket, would always have his respect.

The sun was almost blinding as Rumford exited the darkness of building, forced to hold his hand up, blocking out the sun, allowing his eyes to adjust as he descended the stone steps to the horse Lord French had loaned him. Laying his hand gently on the back of the horse, he stroked his hand over its coat, earning himself a happy chuff from the horse. Whilst he unhooked the horse’s reins and led him away, Rumford allowed himself a smile, remembering when his father was teaching him to ride. His smile widened into a grin as he put his foot into the stirrup, making a clicking noise to the horse, and pulled himself up, throwing his leg over its back, as the horse set off into a slow trot.

“Rumford, you’re supposed to be the one in charge, not the horse.” His father had admonished, a light chuckle obscuring his annoyance. 

Rumford had bounced up and down, side to side, any and every which way, while he clung to the saddle underneath him. He had already fallen more times than he had cared to remember. The Earl had thrown him back onto the horse, encouraging him to try again and again, and again, and God knew how many times his father had stood there, telling him to try again. 

“Rumford!” His father had exclaimed, when Rumford had lost his grip on the saddle and flipped backwards off the horse.

The sky had been a bright blue that day, a shade close to Lady French’s eyes, as he had laid on his back, staring up at it. Rumford hadn’t known what had happened, dazed with his chest heaving for breath. His heart had been racing in his chest, his pulse thumping in his ears, as the rush of adrenaline did fast laps around his body. Blinking his eyes, he had become aware of the ache in his limbs, the slight pain in his back and the dull headache residing at the back of his head.

His father had dropped to his knees and hauled Rumford up and into his lap, grabbing and clutching at the waistcoat, Rumford had been wearing. Looking up at his father, he had never seen his father look so panic, in the short time he had lived with them. 

“Rumford, are you alright?” His father had yelled as though Rumford had been on the other side of the field.

“Yes, father.” Had been his response, worried he had done something wrong. 

“Oh, God, Rumford!” The Earl had clutched him tightly to his chest, his cheek pressed to the top of Rumford’s head, rocking the two of them. “I was so worried!”

Living with the Earl and his wife for two years, Rumford hadn’t been accustomed to the way they treated him at the time, so found moments of affection to be very strange. Years of being hit, kicked and beaten black and blue with a belt, were his only reference for a parent’s love. He never opened up to them, about the years he had spent with his real father, but Rumford assumed that they had an idea of what he’d been through, when more than once, he had shied away from their raised hand. It had taken a lot of time and their patience, for him to become comfortable with them and the kindness they willingly gave him.

Lost in his musings, Rumford realised he was approaching the outskirts of Bolster and gently tapped the horse’s flanks, accompanied by a click of his tongue, urging the horse to gallop. He kept close to the road, retracing the journey back to Avonlea and then on to Lord French’s estate. He sighed happily, knowing she’d be there, when he got back. 

The corner of his mouth turned up as he recalled her sat at the piano, playing perfectly for them. He shouldn’t have been so close to her, yet he had felt compelled to get as close as he could to her. There had been a strong air of violets and lavender about her, teasing him to come closer, to tilt his head down to her, taking in a deep breath of her. Her smell combined with her playing, had stilled his beating heart, giving him a moment of peace from the bitterness his heart harboured. Gazing at the back of her as she played, his eyes had caressed her neck, repeatedly tracing the slope of her neck, envisioning the path his finger would take, where he would kiss, nip, lick and suckle, alternating the order on each pass of her neck. He had come so close to reaching out, impelled to carry out his thoughts, but the constant nattering of the Baron enforced the fact that they were not alone. 

Rumford had retired to bed not long after her, he had looked for her, hoping to see a glimpse of her as the servant had led him to his allocated room. Lying in bed, gazing up at the firelight dancing across the ceiling, his thoughts had remained on her, speculating what she would be doing. Had she long ago fallen asleep? Was she sat reading a book? Was she thinking about him?

Reprimanding himself, he had turned onto his side, slipping his arm underneath the pillow, bunching it up to cushion his head, and closed his eyes. He laid there, attempting to sleep, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Visions of unpinning her hair, fanning out her hair, combing his fingers through her soft curls, had come to mind as he had lay there. Rumford had rolled onto his other side, held himself up on his elbow to fluff his pillow, and dropped with a loud padded thud into the bed, slipped his arm under his pillow, clutched it to his head and closed his eyes. He had struggled not to picture her. To not think of the slope of her neck, the valley of her breasts, the way she had delicately taken her fork from her mouth, her smile when she found something humorous. And worst of all, the way her teeth dug into her lower lip, pinning the plump flesh and sending a rush deep down to his core.

He had thrown himself onto his back, letting out an exasperated moan, and opened his eyes to see the firelight was still dancing across the ceiling. The arousal in his breeches had been very apparent. Rubbing a hand over his face, Rumford hadn’t wanted to touch himself and think about her. She was an innocent and he was an old man, a widower in fact. He had no right to use her image for his pleasure. It would be like tarnishing her name in public and he could never in his right mind, look upon without feeling guilt in his heart. As this internal debate ensued, Rumford’s member had twitched, becoming unmistakeable bulge under the bedcovers.

He had known, he shouldn’t have done it. He had felt terrible as he had unbuttoned his breeches, lifted the flap and delved his hand inside, taking himself firmly in hand. Pushing his head back into his pillow, Rumford had hissed at the first stroke of his hand, adept at knowing the right amount of pressure. Closing his eyes, he had randomly picked one of the wenches, he had been with in the past, forcing any trace of Lady Belle out of his head. Pictured in his head was a young girl, older than Lady Belle, her eyes brown, whereas Lady Belle’s were blue, she also had brown hair like Lady’s Belle’s, but Lady Belle’s had flecks of…

Rumford stopped and opened his eyes. “Damn it!”

Annoyed with himself, he closed his eyes, conceding. “Fine!”

Readjusting his hold on himself, Rumford had renewed his efforts, lavishly rubbing the length of his cock as his other hand held the hilt of himself. He had swallowed loudly, visualising Lady French… Belle had straddled him, her petite hands supporting her weight on his stomach, rocking rhythmically back and forth, soft moans of satisfaction tumbling from her lips. Her long curls were loose, swinging with her movements, caressing her skin and covering her face, every other rock of her hips. He had laid underneath her, basking in her beauty, coaching her pace, with his hands on her hips, guiding her as he thrusted up to meet her.

The movement of Belle’s hips had started to increase, her hands pushed harder into his stomach, making him grunt under the strain, whilst she had drove herself forward, firmly bearing her core down onto him. She was beautiful as she had ridden him with her eyes closed, relishing the sensation of him being deep inside of her. Rumford had raised a hand to her right breast, faintly tracing his fingertips down the breast until her breast had fit snugly into the palm of his hand, allowing him to cup her. Her eyes had opened and she had gazed down at him as his thumb had swiped over her hard nipple. He had smirked, seeing her eyes flash wide at his touch. Her retorted to his tease, had been too heavily grind herself against him, but from the reaction on her face and the low deep moan she emitted, it had more of an effect on her than it had on him.

Returning his hand to her hip, he had encouraged her to do it again and again, lengthening her stroke, using his hands to force her hips further down, crushing their hip bones together. She had sucked in a breath, then another, her chest heaving in and out, before she threw back her head, moaning his name up at the ceiling. The movement of her hips became erratic as though he was trying to tame a wild horse. Clamping down her hips, digging in his fingers, Rumford had taken control, rocking her, keeping the pace, while she had lulled her head forward, whimpering with each breath she took. Her fingernails had sunk into his skin, anchoring her, while she sustained the pace under his guidance. The mixture of the pain and his pleasure had been Rumford’s undoing, coming hard and fast. Pressing is fingertips into the flesh of her butt cheeks, he had demanded she keep rocking with him as his climax had blazed through his body, leaving his skin warm and tingly in its wake. He had grunted and growled her name, claiming her to be his with his cry.

Opening his eyes, Rumford had folded back the covers and got up to sit on the edge of the bed, his erection gradually subsided inside the palm of his hand. He had sneered at the sticky residue of his seed, disgusted with himself for using her image for his own pleasure. With a grunt of annoyance, Rumford had gotten up and washed himself and his hand in the wash basin, cleaning the evidence of his pleasure from his breeches. He had thought after that, he would’ve been able to sleep, but it hadn’t helped. He had tossed and turned, paced the room, tried doing press ups and sit ups, until he had given up in the early hours of the morning and had gotten dress. Not wanting to disturb anyone in the household, Rumford had crept his way through the house and went out into the gardens, finding a spot to sit and dwell on his failings.

‘ _And people call you a gentleman._ ’, he remarked to himself, tugging the reins to the left, so the horse followed the road that bypassed Avonlea. Somehow, he had forgotten about his misconduct till Lord French had told Lady Belle, about him walking in the gardens. She had been very concerned that it was his room, which had caused him a lack of sleep. The bed was very comfortable; he had been honest when he had said that to her. It was the fact, she wasn’t in said bed with him, which had caused him the problem. Rumford shook his head at himself, for getting so bashful under her questioning gaze. If she had known, why he couldn’t sleep, her father would’ve been throwing him and Jefferson out of their house.

He didn’t deserve her concern.

Conquering the brow of the hill, Lord French’s estate came into view and Rumford let out a sigh of relief as he looked up at the sun giving way to dusk. He kicked lightly at the horse’s flanks and trotted down the hill to the manor, guiding the horse to the open gates leading to the courtyard. The horse’s hooves clicked and clacked on the bricked courtyard, alerting the servants to his arrival.

The Stablemaster strolled out of the stables, wiping his hands down the front of his coat. “Ah, Lord Gold!” He caught the reins under the horse’s muzzle. “I was starting to wonder, if you were going to be back in time with dusk nearly upon us.”

“I was a little worried myself.” Rumford confessed as he swung his right leg back and over the horse, hopping from the other stirrup to land solidly beside the horse.

“Granny shouldn’t be too much longer with dinner.” The Stablemaster informed him, beginning to lead the horse away. “You should have enough time, if you’d like, to freshen yourself up before dinner, M’ Lord.”

“Thank you.” Rumford nodded his head at the man.

Pivoting round, he headed back to the gates to enter the house through the front door, gazing through the French doors as he walked by them. It looked as if everyone was having pre-dinner drinks in the drawing room. He wiped down the front of his coat and waistcoat, beating off the dust and dirt, and swiped a few times at the front of his trousers. Knocking the front door, Rumford waited for the footman to open the door, checking the sole of his boots for mud and anything unsavoury.

The door opened, accompanied by a voice. “Good evening, M’ Lord. Your luggage was taken up earlier to your room.”

“Evening.” Rumford returned, nodding his head to the young man. “Thank you.”

The footman closed the door as Rumford ascended the stairs, proceeding up to his room to change his shirt and waistcoat. The smell of the cotton mills always had a habit of remaining on his clothes and it wasn’t something, he wanted to repulse Lady French’s nose with. He opened the door to his room and left it open behind him, knowing he wouldn’t be long, and shrugged off his coat as he crossed the room to where they had left his large bag.

Rumford threw his coat, waistcoat and shirt to the wingback armchair. Yanking open his bag, he took out a fresh coat, waistcoat and shirt, laying them on the end of the bed before he rummaged inside of his bag for his shaving kit. He unclipped the pouch for his shaving kit and laid it out by the wash basin. After washing himself, Rumford set about shaving himself, brushing the lather of soap onto his face, covering his cheeks up to his sideburns, under his chin and neck, and across his top lip. Starting on the right side of his face, he stroked the blade across his cheek, then took another stroke across his face, incorporating the lower part of his cheek. He swished the blade in the water and carefully swiped along the top of his lip, taking it from the middle of his lip outwards. It wasn’t long that he had worked his way down his neck and around to his left cheek, and was preparing to shave down his left cheek, when he heard the click of someone’s shoe on the wooden as they entered his room.

“Lord Gold.” Lady French called his name and gently knocked his door.

Startled by her voice, he nicked his skin as he shaved his cheek. Rumford touched where it hurt and pulled his finger away to see the fresh blood on his finger. He hissed out a swear word, whilst he swished the blade in the water and reached for the nearby towel.

“Lord Gold, din…” She stopped, he looked at her, pressing the towel to the cut.

Her mouth was gaping open, stood just passed the door, her arms held close to her chest for protection, while she stared at him. Mindful that most of him was naked, Rumford tossed the towel to where he had got it, discarded the blade to the wash basin and trotted over to the bed, snatching up his shirt, scrambling to put it on and cover up his nakedness to her.

“I’m so sorry, Lady French.” He told her earnestly. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come and find me.”

“Err… Yes. Well…” Her cheeks were a deep red as Lady French averted her gaze, refusing to look at him.

“Was there something you needed?” Rumford asked, attempting to ignore the fact she’d seen his naked chest.

She strongly shook her head. “No, no, no… No.”

“You’re very sure on that fact.” He teased, which possibly wasn’t the best idea. “But I might be inclined to take your four no’s and count them as a positive, meaning yes, you do need me for something.”

Her brow creased at him. “Excuse me?”

‘ _Idiot.’_ Rumford ignored the voice in his head and said. “Lady French, you came to find me for a reason before… Well, you know.” He waved his hand through the air, his loose shirt sleeve wafting as he did. “What was it you were coming to tell me?”

“Oh! Yes! Ha!” Her blush darkened. “Dinner’s being served.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I’ll be down shortly.” And he bowed to her.

He heard her skirt swish with movement and the sound of her shoes click as she left the room. Standing up, Rumford gazed at the door, while he touched the bloody spot on his cheek and looked to his finger, coated in bright red blood. He dipped his hand into the water, retrieving the blade and finished shaving. Dabbing his face, he was careful around the cut, checking it a few times to see if it had stemmed itself. Happy with how his face felt, Rumford retrieved his aftershave from the kit and patted a small amount onto the shaven area, and touched a hint to his wrists. He wasn’t looking forward to going downstairs as he finished getting dress and spared a moment to comb his hair before he went downstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle escapes from Gaston and hides in the maze garden.

Rushing across the patio, her hair bellowing out behind her, Belle dashed away from the ballroom after hastily closing the door behind her, attempting to escape her pursuer. Yesterday had been easy to avoid him getting her alone, playing hostess to Mr Mandermer. Also, he must have sensed, she didn’t want to be left alone as Mr Mandermer had also taken tea with her, which gentlemen seldom did, as it was classed as a lady’s pastime. Her luck, though, had run out with their two guests taking a trip into Avonlea, checking in on the blacksmith and collecting their mail from the inn. She would’ve opted to go with them, ceasing a chance to take Phillipe out and visit the small store, escaping Gaston for a while. Lord Gold and Mr Mandermer had left so quickly, she heard the news after they had left, when Ruby had come to warn her, her pursuer was looking for her. Hiding in different rooms in the house, listening to the grumble demands of Gaston in the hallways, Belle had snuck from room to room, servants helping her with her subterfuge. Unluckily, he had unknowingly cornered her into the ballroom, giving her no option, but to escape out into the gardens. 

She looked back hearing his agitated voice, fearing he had seen her and was following her into the gardens. Lifting her skirts, Belle leaped down the steps into the maze garden and sprinted through it, losing herself to the elaborate pathways, hoping it would buy her some time to formulate a new plan. Her shoes slipped on the gravel as she rushed around a corner, bashing herself into the defined edge of the hedge, and hurried into a seemingly dead end. Belle checked back over her shoulder before she pushed her body into the wall of the hedge, pressing herself flat into it, opening the secret path between the bushes. The secret sitting area was known only to father, herself, Ruby and the gardeners. Panting for breath, she dropped unceremoniously onto the stone bench, gazing up to the sky, questioning what her mother would’ve thought of her. 

Bracing her elbows on her knees, she bent herself over, cradling her head in the palms of her hands, taking steadying breaths to calm herself. In some regard, she had put herself at a disadvantage, because if he found her in here, which she highly doubted, she’d have no way of escaping him. There was only one entrance to the small sitting area. Course, she could refuse him, which was her right, but it was highly frowned upon and her father had made it quite clear, he was in favour of the match. If only Gaston made her heart thump, the way that he did…

Belle had to admit to herself, spending yesterday with Mr Mandermer, had not been about being a good hostess or securing she wouldn’t be left alone with Gaston. It had been a fishing expedition, for more information on Lord Gold. She had to know, because her heart had been breaking, thinking there was a Countess at home, waiting fondly for his return. He had been quite easy to talk to and the conversation had flowed effortlessly till the subject of marriage.

“I hope our other guest isn’t annoying you and Lord Gold too much.” She had said to him, pouring some of the tea into the teacup, set in front of him.

Mr Mandermer had smiled kindly at her as he had selected a cake to put on the tea plate, held in his other hand. “I wouldn’t worry yourself about it, my Lady. Lord Gold and I are quite capable of amusing ourselves with characters, such as the Baron. As you can imagine, we’ve dealt with many Lords akin to the Baron.”

She had begun pouring tea into her own cup as she had commented to him. “Yes, but I was very aware of Lord Gold’s dislike for the Baron over dinner last night.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” He had said reaching for the small pot of milk, to pour a small amount into his teacup. “The Baron’s sport might be defenceless animals. The Earl’s is rude and obnoxious Lords.”

The image of Lord Gold hunting Gaston had encouraged a smirk to grace her lips, while she had tipped a small amount of milk into her tea, saying. “I’m not one to enjoy in the torment of others, but I think in this case, I could be persuaded to turn a blind eye.”

Mr Mandermer had torn a piece from his cake as he had remarked. “Lord Gold, sadly, will hold his tongue on this occasion. We’re guests of your father's and we’re well aware your father has a fondness for the Baron.”

“A fondness one would have for a son.” Belle had agreed with him, stirring her tea.

“He’s in favour of you marrying the Baron?” He had inquired, his gaze on her, as he had slipped the torn piece of cake into his mouth. 

“Very much so.” He had nodded his head at her answer as she had asked him. “Are you married, Mr Mandermer?”

With a thoughtful look in his eyes, Mr Mandermer had said. “I was married. She died a few years ago.”

Shifting in her chair, Belle had reached across to take a hold of his hand, cradling it between her own, as she had offered her sympathies. “My condolences, Mr Mandermer, if I had known, I wouldn’t have asked such an impertinent question.”

“Don’t think anything about it.” Mr Mandermer had smiled. “I loved my wife very much. I’m not ashamed to talk about her, even if it is painful at times to remember her.” His shoulders had shrugged before he had continued. “It’s a pain I’m learning to bear as my daughter grows to look more like her mother every day.”

“A daughter? What’s her name?” She had probed, excitedly squeezing his hand.

“Grace. She’s eight.” He had answered, smiling proudly. 

Belle had been struck with the memory of her mother, bleeding to death in her arms. It wasn’t easy at any age to lose someone’s mother. She was eternally grateful, for the time she'd had spent with her mother, but was saddened to hear, how Mr Mandermer’s daughter’s time with her mother had been so short. Hardly a chance for the young girl to get to know her mother.

Casting her gaze to their joined hands, she had said. “It can’t be easy for her.”

“She’s strong and she’s got the boys.” He had commented, hooking his finger into the handle of the teacup, lifting it to his lips to take a sip.

“The boys?” Belle had enquired, raising her gaze suddenly to meet his, over the rim of his tea cup.

“Yes,” Mr Mandermer had lowered his tea cup, gently placing it on its saucer. “Neal, is Lord Gold’s son, and Charlie, is Mrs Potts son. She’s Lord Gold’s housekeeper.”

Hearing the news of a son, Belle’s fingers had grasped tightly at Mr Mandermer’s hand, which he had noticed, dropping his gaze to their hands. She had immediately released his hands and shunted back in her chair, turning to face the table, and quickly picked up her tea to drink from it. His eyes were on her and out of the corner of her eye, she had seen the curious look he had been giving her. Lowering her teacup, a slight tremble to her hand, Belle had put on a smile and met his attention as she put her teacup carefully back on its saucer, the base chinking with her tremble before she had set it down.

“Lord Gold has a son.” She had stated, not for his benefit, but for her own, making the fact more real with it passing from her own lips. “Suggesting Lord Gold is married too.”

His lips had pursed together as his brow hunched briefly over his eyes, thinking about his answer, and had said. “He’s a widower.”

“Oh!” The exclamation had departed her before she could bite it back. 

Nervous under his scrutiny, Belle had smiled shyly at him, stretching an arm to select a biscuit from the plate of goodies, Granny had prepared for them. Mr Mandermer’s eyebrow had raised at her, a slight crook at the right side of his mouth. She had bitten the biscuit, buying herself more time to conjure together a convincing retort to explain her sudden outcry. However, before she had come up with anything conceivable, Mr Mandermer had diverted his gaze from her, to his cake on the tea plate.

“The Countess died many years ago. There was no love lost when she died.” He had carefully picked up his cake, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. “She was young, when they married, arranged by his mother and her mother. Not like my marriage. Priscilla and I were madly in love, whereas they were amicable with one another.” 

Belle had drunk some more of her tea as she had listened to him, not wanting to interrupt him as he continued. “He did try to make her happy, but she was so restless.” His face had formed into a scowl as he recalled details, waving the cake around in his hand. “When she was with child, we’d all hoped motherhood would be the making of her.”

“It wasn’t?” The words had slipped out, too enthralled in his story to stop herself.

His right shoulder was thrown up and had dropped limply as Mr Mandermer had said prior to taking a bite from his cake. “If you were to ask me, it made her worse.” 

She had frowned at his reply, while he had chewed. “How can bringing a child into the world make things worse? A child is a joyous occasion.”

“It is,” He had put his tea plate down onto the table. “However to some, like her, they find it an imprisoning experience.”

“I can’t believe that. No mother would…” Belle had stopped, when his hand touched her hand, telling her. “I’d love to agree with your sentiment, my Lady, but I’m afraid, I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“Witnessed what?” She had questioned, her eyebrows knitted together.

Removing his hand from hers, he had picked up his teacup, saying to her. “I’ve already said too much. He won’t appreciate me talking about such things, especially about her.”

The conversation had given her the answer she had sought, but had left her with more questions and had escalated her interest in Lord Gold. Belle lifted her head from the cradle of her hands and sat back. Last night, when he had returned from Bolster, she had wanted to talk to him, seeking the answers to the many questions plaguing her. She had heard his horse trot into the courtyard, while they had been subjected to another story of Gaston’s bravery. Peering over the back of the sofa, she had observed the Stablemaster, Samson, holding the horse, while Lord Gold had gotten down smoothly, landing without fault. They had exchanged words and nods, and then Lord Gold had turned to walk to the front of the house, while Samson had led the horse into the stables.

Moseying by the French doors, Lord Gold had glanced through the doors and then looked away, continuing to the front, whilst he had wiped at his clothing. She had angled her head, as much as she could, to keep him in her view, but it was futile, he was gone. Turning to face the room, Belle had caught Mr Mandermer looking at her, a small knowing smirk on his face. She had tilted her head slightly, giving him a questioning look, which he had ignored and had taken a sip of his whiskey.

Her ears had pricked, to the sound of the knock at the front door, such a strange occurrence in their house. Belle tried to look like she was listening to Gaston, noticing her father had looked round, hearing the knock as well. He had smiled warmly at her, when their gazes had met, and she had returned it. Turning his attention back to Gaston, who was acting out how he had pounced on his prey, her father had settled back into his chair, while Belle inclined her head to the door, intently listening for Lord Gold’s footsteps in the hallway. Slowly, her eyes travelled to the door, wondering what was taking him so long, to come to the drawing room. By now, after coming through the front door, he should have been entering the drawing room. Assuming, he’d gone to his room, Belle had reluctantly settled back into the sofa and had turned her gaze to Gaston, who was explaining to Mr Mandermer, how many eggs he ate for breakfast every morning, strutting like a bodybuilder.

A few minutes had passed, before one of the young maids came to the doorway, and had lightly knocked the door and waited. Everyone had looked to the door, while Belle had launched herself up from the sofa, snatching the opportunity to free herself of her boredom. The young maid had backed up, allowing Belle to come out of the drawing room.

“Yes?” Belle had prompted.

“Dinner’s being served, M’ Lady.” The young maid had then curtsied, bobbin her head. 

“Okay, thank you.” Nodding her head to the young girl, Belle had backed into the room to address its occupants. “Dinner’s being served.”

Mr Mandermer had begun to push himself out of his chair, saying. “I’ll go and notify Lord Gold.”

“Oh, no, no!” She had been very eager in her plea to stop him, waving for him to retake his seat, three pairs of eyes staring at her. “Mr Mandermer, you’re our guest. Please sit and I’ll go and call Lord Gold to dinner.”

“If that’s what you wish, my Lady.” The knowing grin, he had shown her earlier, was back on his face as he had lowered himself into his chair. 

“Belle, you don’t…” Her father had begun to tell her, twisting in the armchair.

Hastily, Belle had rushed out of the door, calling back into the room. “It’s okay, papa, I won’t be long.”

It had sounded like Gaston was making a remark to her father, probably along the lines of, ‘ _The lady of the house should not be doing the job of a servant’._ She had no care for his opinion. Gaston had made it quite clear to her, on numerous occasions, that once they were wedded, he would put an end to all these silly notions, she had in her head. After their wedding, Belle was positive, he would lock her away in a cage, so all men could see her and he could regale on how he hunted her down and tamed her. ‘ _In his fricking dreams.’_ , Belle had remarked in her head, purposefully striding down the hallway to the foyer.

The footman was stood idly by the front door, posing like a statue, as he waited to perform his duty. Hearing her clicking shoes on the wooden floor, he had let his head turn enough to see her and had edged round to face her, foreseeing she was approaching him. He bowed his head to her, his hands clasped in front of him, as he waited for her to address him.

“Giles, where did Lord Gold go?” She had asked, snooping at the hallway leading to the lower level of the library and her father’s study.

“He went upstairs, M’ Lady.” Was his answer, keeping his head bowed.

She had smiled at him, though he hadn’t seen it, telling him. “Thank you, Giles.”

As she started to climb the stairs, Belle suddenly felt bad for leaving Mr Mandermer behind in the drawing room, when he had stayed in her company all day, thwarting off Gaston’s attempts to talk to her alone. She knew she wouldn’t be long as she had finished climbing the stairs and had turned right at the top of the stairs. His room was on the opposite side of the house to hers. It was where her father always put the male guests, keeping the length of the house between their quarters and hers. There were four guest rooms and her father’s room on this side of the house. The first room she had passed was always put aside for Gaston, after he commented about liking the view. Whereas Belle questioned, whether he wanted that room, because it was the closest to her room, out of all the other guest rooms.

Following the turn in the hallway, Belle had noticed up ahead, one of the doors to a guest bedroom was open. Softly approaching, she had heard a clinking and swishing sound coming from the open doorway. She had nervously swallowed. Apprehension had promptly burnt through her, making her regret her hasty decision as she had neared the door. A voice, sounding much like her mother’s said, _‘Do the brave thing, Belle, and bravery will follow’_. Pushing forward with those words of encouragement, Belle had approached his door.

“Lord Gold.” Belle had called softly, edging through the open doorway.

Hearing a loud hiss, swish of water and a heavy clunk, she had leaned forward, curious, peering around the edge of the door. Not able to see anything from her angle, Belle had taken a considerable step into the room, appearing from behind the door, as she had called his name again.

“Lord Gold, din…”

She stopped.

Lord Gold had been standing before her, half naked, holding a white towel to his face, his chin covered in shaving cream and… ‘ _Oh my… GOD!’_ , she had cried internally, ‘ _LORD GOLD WAS HALF NAKED!!_ ’. She hadn’t known where to look, yet she hadn’t been able take her eyes off him. The tan at his neck flowed down to covered the rest of his body, giving her the startling realisation, he spent a considerable amount of time shirtless. Her toes had curled tightly inside of her shoes with the thought. Belle had wanted to dance, jig about the room, giggling stupidly to herself. Feeling giddy, she had brought her hands up to her chest, scared by her instinct to touch him, to feel him, to kiss her lips to his smooth chest, to explore the small depression in the middle of his upper chest with her tongue.

Tossing his towel to the table, which housed the wash basin, Lord Gold had walked briskly to the bed and had snatched up a shirt from the end of the bed. At a quick pace, he had thrown the shirt on over his head and had wrestled with the fabric, feeding his arms into the sleeves.

“I’m so sorry, Lady French.” He had apologised earnestly, his chin covered in shaving cream, with a bright red streak of blood on his left cheek. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to come and find me.”

“Err… Yes. Well…” She had felt the heat in her cheeks and had wanted to cover her shame with her hands, instead she had looked away, embarrassed for him to see her acting like such a child.

“Was there something you needed?” He had asked her, his tone indifferent to her.

‘ _Yes, you.’_ She had answered brazenly in her head. The answer had come from nowhere, mortifying her that she could think of such a thing. Yet, Belle had wondered what would happen, if she said it aloud to him. What if she stood there, unloaded all of the feelings and thoughts she’d had since he had entered her father’s house. Told him, how she fantasied about doing things to him and of him doing things to her, things she had never thought about before she had met him. What if, she invited him to remove her dress and show her a pleasure, she had never experienced before…?

Crashing back to reality, Belle had shaken her head at herself, telling herself. “No, no, no… No.”

“You’re very sure on that fact.” Lord Gold had sounded like he’d been teasing her. “But I might be inclined to take your four no’s and count them as a positive, meaning yes, you do need me for something.”

Belle had felt deep lines form in her brow, drawing a total blank to his meaning. “Excuse me?”

He had rolled his eyes at her, probably thinking she was a stupid child, and said. “Lady French, you came to find me for a reason before… Well, you know.” His hand had gestured wildly in the air, flapping his undone sleeve. “What was it you were coming to tell me?”

“Oh! Yes! Ha!” She had never felt more stupid than she did in that moment, stood in front of the man, who had been sucking her finger in a fantasy, caressed her breast in a daydream and helped to remove her corset in a daze. “Dinner’s being served.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I’ll be down shortly.” And he had bowed.

Groaning at the memory, Belle dropped her head heavily back into her hands, supporting her forehead, her elbows bolstered by her knees. The image of him, half naked, had kept her awake until the wee hours of the morning, when she had decided to give up and read a book. Her imagination though, was definitely against her. Picturing the scenes of her book, intently following the storylines, she had been betrayed by her mind, adding Lord Gold into the scene, topless, taking her attention away from the story. Normally, she would chew through at least five or six chapters in half an hour. Yet, last night, Belle hadn’t been able to get through one chapter and had given up, throwing the book across the room.

The hedge near the entrance to the hidden sitting area, unexpectedly started rustling. Leaping up from the stone bench, Belle vainly looked about for an escape route and even considered climbing up and over the hedge wall. The hedge at the entrance wriggled and then shook, before Ruby burst through the very small gap.

“I thought you’d be here.” Ruby declared, smiling.

“Where is he?” She demanded, straining to see, if anyone was following her through the secret entrance.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder, following Belle’s gaze, as she answered. “It’s okay. One of the gardeners has told him, they saw you heading to the coastal path. He’ll be gone for hours.”

“Thank god!” Belle collapsed onto the stone bench.

Shaking her head, Ruby took the seat next to her, saying. “What are you going to do? You can’t keep this up.”

“I know, I know.” She rubbed a hand over her face and then shifted on the bench to face more to Ruby. “I could run away?”

“And your father would send an army to drag you back.” Ruby countered.

Belle pursed her lips in thought. “Fake my death?”

“Bit extreme, isn’t it?” Ruby frowned at the suggestion. “I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“I’m going to have to accept it and say yes to him.” She conceded, staring blankly at the ground.

Ruby nudged her head to the side, a thought coming to mind. “You could always marry someone else.”

“Like who?” She inquired, throwing her hand aimlessly into the air, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t know, anyone would do, whose single.” Ruby threw back at Belle.

Belle rounded her gaze on Ruby. “I can’t just marry anybody. Father has to give his permission as I’m under twenty-one.”

“Who do we know then?” Ruby prompted, meeting Belle’s gaze.

“Nearly everyone I know has been married off.” Belle made a ‘pfft’ noise before she continued. “It’s not as if I had suitors bashing down the door before Gaston.”

“That’s because, you went to all those balls and spent more time in their libraries than you did in the actual ballroom.” Ruby commented, nudging Belle’s shoulder.

Her shoulder’s sunk at Ruby’s comment. “I can’t help it, if I find those social events boring.”

“You wouldn’t be in this situation, if you’d spent more time dancing and less time reading.” Ruby admonished, digging her fingers into Belle’s ribs.

“Alright, this isn’t helping!” Belle asserted in a loud voice, fighting off Ruby’s attempts to poke her.

Ruby chuckled, suggesting. “You should just marry Mr Mandermer or Lord Gold. You said, they’re both widowers.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She rejected Ruby’s suggestion without thinking it through.

“It’s not that ridiculous.” Ruby defended. “Your idea about faking your death is ridiculous.”

Her brow, bit by bit, lowered down over her eyes as she allowed the idea to ripen. It would solve her issue. She wouldn’t earn a questionable reputation, from refusing Gaston, which she knew he would encourage in a bid to put anyone else off her. Leaving her no choice, but to accept his proposal. Lord Gold and Mr Mandermer were both widowers – single. Both appeared to be honourable gentlemen and well established in their own right, which wouldn’t give her father any reason to refuse them. The thing, her father might object, was the fact that they had just met, where as she and he knew Gaston, regrettably. Apart from her secret interrogation of Mr Mandermer, she hardly knew anything about either of them, except they both had a child.

Belle bit her lip, pondering which one she would proposition, despite knowing exactly who she wanted to choose. They’d hardly spoken to one another, except at dinner and in the drawing room before she’d retire for the night, which had been polite conversation. Convincing a man, when they hardly knew each other, to marry her was ludicrous. Nevertheless, she didn’t really see what other choice she had. Either, she persuaded Lord Gold to marry her or she would have to accept her fate and marry Gaston.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumford and Jefferson travel back from Avonlea.

Clasping the edges of his saddle, Rumford pushed up on his foot and pulled himself up onto his horse, throwing his leg over to sit astride the horse’s back. He gathered the excess length of the reins between his hands, flicking the excess over his left thigh, clasping a comfortable length in his right hand. Using the stirrups, Rumford stood and repositioned himself in his saddle. Settling himself, his gaze was on Jefferson, chatting to the maid, he’d been chatting up while Rumford had been going about town, attending to his business. He breathed in, expanding his chest, setting back his shoulders, aware of the tightness in his back as he dropped his eyes back to the reins in his hands, sliding the extra through his left hand, to drop across his left thigh again.

Another sleepless night was taking its toll on him. He had hoped the soak in the tub, he had last night, would’ve helped him. After the maid had left him, Rumford had made sure to turn the key in his bedroom door and clambered into the tub, discarding his nightshirt to the nearby armchair. Relaxing in the tub, basking in front of the fireplace, letting the warm water ebb away his aches, he had watched the firelight dance in the fireplace.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, soaking, when her hand had dipped into the water, collecting the soap from the bottom of the bath. Lounging with his arms hooked on the edge of the bath, his head lulled on the rim, Rumford had let her rub the soap over him, rewashing where he had already washed, observing her petite hand as it had glided across his skin. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him, which he had found all the more arousing. His eyes traced the path of her hand, while it gradually worked its way down his chest, leaving a zigzag pattern of bubbles as she worked, lowering further and further to the surface of the cloudy water. This was the point, where the whole world just fell away, and it was just him and her, and the unbidden question of whether she would or not.

He had known the answer. She had known the answer.

Yet, she had looked at him, for the first time in their encounter, questioning whether she should do it, asking permission to delve deeper. They didn’t speak, they didn’t break eye contact, either. A crook at the corner of his lips was all she needed. Her hand had dropped the soap and submerged her hand into the water, grasping his already straining erection.

“Hey!” Jefferson swatted a newspaper against his chest. “I managed to get you this, when I was in the store. It’s a day old, but it’s news you haven’t read.”

“Thank you.” Rumford peeled the newspaper from his chest, blowing out a hot subtle breath as he repositioned himself in his saddle.

“I got some chocolates for Lady French, while I was there.” Jefferson collected his reins of his horse and then lifted his foot to secure into the stirrup.

Folding the newspaper again, making it smaller, he twisted to slip it under the flap of his bag, slung over the back of his horse, stating to Jefferson. “A frivolous gift.”

“I got Lord French a bottle of whiskey as well.” Jefferson bounced, twice, a third time, and hoisted himself up and onto his horse. “And showing our thanks is not frivolous. It’s good manners. What would your mother say?”

Leading the horse via the reins to turn left, a gentle tap to its flanks, Rumford said. “My mother would’ve told you to get flowers, not chocolates. A lady has to watch her figure.”

Behind him, he heard Jefferson making a clicking noise, setting his horse off to follow Rumford’s, muttering. “The rounder the better, if you ask me.”

“I don’t remember you buying much chocolates for Priscilla.” Rumford commented, angling his head to watch Jefferson trot up beside him.

Jefferson grinned, leaning in favour of Rumford as he lowered his voice to say, smirking. “That’s because she was round in all the right places.”

Rumford chortled, whilst he tapped the flanks of his horse with his heels, nudging it to increase its speed. Together, they trotted at a nice steady pace out of the village, taking the road back to Lord French’s estate. He settled himself into a gentle rock with his horse’s rhythm, enjoying the short leisurely ride back to the estate, picking a spot on the horizon to focus on as they rode back.

Though, as he thought about Lord French’s estate, his mind wandered to Lady French. They’d hardly spoken to one another, apart from the polite conversation at dinner and in the drawing room. Last night, Rumford had wanted to take her to one side after dinner, to apologise for his carelessness and his state of undress, coveting to receive her forgiveness. He didn’t get the chance. Not long after they had entered the drawing room and he had gone to cross the room to her, she had swiftly wished them all a goodnight and had gone to bed, excusing herself early with a headache. Loitering near the chair, she had been inhabiting, Rumford hadn’t known what to do with himself and had excused himself as well, telling them all he wanted to bath before bed.

Stood at the top of the grand staircase, he had looked down the corridor to the left, taking an educated guess, her bedroom was on that side of the house. Rumford had turned to go to his room, refusing to intrude on her virtue, by giving people reason to doubt her, if he had gone seeking her in her chambers.

“Did I tell you I took tea with Lady French yesterday?” Jefferson queried.

Rumford pivoted his gaze round to Jefferson. “No, you didn’t.”

“Very interesting conversation.” His friend teased him to prompt him.

“I’m glad.” Rumford didn’t bite, returning his attention in front of him.

They settled back into a comfortable silence. Rumford found his spot again on the horizon, pursing his lips as he allowed his mind to drift back to last night, to the point where her hand had reached into the murky water and had grasped his throbbing member. She hadn’t been surprised by it. She should’ve been, but she wasn’t. If he went by the look, he had seen on her face, she was exceedingly satisfied with how big his member was in her small hand. Not an ounce of fear in her eyes. Her gaze had crept up his chest to meet his gaze, grinning at him. He had opened his mouth to say…

Jefferson tapped Rumford’s leg with his foot. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?” Rumford inquired, annoyed Jefferson had disturbed him again.

“Ask me about my interesting conversation with Lady French.” Jefferson urged.

“How would you like me to ask you?” He asked, shifting in his saddle to see his friend beside him more easily. “In a certain tone? Sarcasm, intrigue? Or what, where, when, why? Which would you care for?”

Jefferson nudged his horse to close the gap and grabbed Rumford by his coat sleeve, pulling at his arm, much like a child would for attention, as he said. “Would you just ask me about it! I know you want to know!”

“I most certainly do not!” Rumford asserted, leading his horse to widen the gap.

“You most certainly do!” Jefferson accused.

“Jefferson, you’re not supposed to share every private conversation with me!” Rumford scolded with a scowl, unconsciously leading his horse back to Jefferson. “Especially conversations you’ve shared with a lady, such as Lady French. Whatever she felt inclined to tell you, doesn’t mean she wants that being shared with the likes of me or anyone else, for that matter.”

He rolled his eyes at his friend, swinging his hips to return himself into a more comfortable position. “Makes me wonder, if you go round sharing all of our private conversations with people.”

Jefferson grumbled. “Well… Someone definitely woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.”

Exhaling loudly through his nose, Rumford wasn’t really annoyed with Jefferson, he was annoyed with himself for allowing himself to be distracted by her. The last two days, she had dominated his thoughts, inhabited his daydreams, persistently tortured him when he closed his eyes, was literally the air he breathed. She had become everything, yet she was nothing to him and he was nothing to her.

Nevertheless, Jefferson was right. He was thrilled to learn more of Lady French. He was enthralled to find out all the mundane things about her. Did she like to sew? Was she an avid reader? How did she like her tea – one lump or two, milk? What did she dislike? Would she care to sit by the fire with him, on rainy afternoons, enjoying one another’s company? There were so many things, he wanted to know about her, it scared him. When he had met his first wife, Rumford couldn’t have cared to know these things about her, and if he was honest, he still probably didn’t know the answers to these questions after four years of marriage.

It had been an arranged union, one made in haste and one he regretted. Rumford had been twenty-one, when he had been introduced to her, Milah. A ball or some event to celebrate God knows what, he couldn’t remember. His mother had made the introduction, having known Milah’s mother when she was younger. He somewhat remembered, telling his mother she would do. A part of him wished it had been more romantic than that. She was sixteen, when they got married, hardly a clue as to who she was and what she wanted out of life.

In the beginning, it had been amicable, they would take tea together, sit and read together, and being young, had sex at the drop of a handkerchief. He never forced himself upon her, but she had been as eager after he had awakened her to the forbidden pleasure. Because of their fervent need, it was not long after they had married, she had become pregnant with their son, Neal.

Rumford had been over the moon. A son, a child of his own, his own flesh and blood, family. He had been the first to hold him. Still covered in vernix and blood, he had clutched his son snugly to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings as his son had slept peacefully in his arms. The birth hadn’t been easy on Milah. She had been bedridden for several weeks afterwards, finding it difficult to get around unaided. Dividing his time between Milah and Neal, and running the estate at the same time, he’d had a lot on his plate at the time, but he made it work for their sakes, for his family.

Rumford would’ve loved to put his finger on the catalyst in their timeline, where it had started to crumble. Slowly, arguments had started. Milah wanted more of this, more of that, demanded to be included in the estate’s business, didn’t want the pressure of duties, wanted to build a new wing on the manor, thought about tearing down walls. She used to come out with so many crazy ideas, she had driven Rumford to despair. At some point, she had started paying less attention to Neal and had spent more time out of the house, riding her horse around the estate…

That wasn’t true. Rumford had known exactly where she had gone.

Jefferson had been visiting with his late wife, Priscilla, and Grace. It had been a very stormy night, teeming with rain, and Rumford had stupidly worried for Milah. Throwing on his cloak, he’d left Neal with Jefferson and had taken his horse in search of Milah. She always followed the path back from the lake, when she went out ‘riding’. He had ridden his horse hard, agonising about her, he had gotten to the lake to see no sign of her. Reluctantly, he had pushed on from the lake, heading to the old cottage for the gamekeeper, which was empty at the time.

He approached the old cottage, entering the clearing, and had let out a long sigh at seeing the light through the cottage window and her horse tied up beside the cottage. The relief to know she was safe and sound washed over him and he had smiled, shaking his head at himself, while he had let out a short laugh. What he hated, when he thought back to that night, was how naïve and foolish he had been to not listen to own gut. Teaching him a lesson for the rest of his life.

Rumford had launched himself off his horse, tied it next to her horse, and had raced into the cottage. What he had told himself to believe and what he had seen, were definitely the polar opposites of what he had witnessed. In his head, he had imagined that she would’ve been huddled up by the fire, alone, her hands outstretched beckoning him to come to her, like she used to on such evenings. What he saw was a mass of blankets, moving and withering, in front of the fire, moans of pleasure emanating from said mass. Clothes had been discarded about the cottage. There was food on a plate, a half-drunk bottle of wine, he had recognised, and two glasses, which he had also recognised, with traces of wine on a table.

“What the hell!” He had roared, slamming the cottage door shut with a loud clatter.

The mass on the floor had exploded outwards, sending blankets everywhere, revealing quite a lot of naked flesh. Rumford had stared at the ass of his wife, down on all fours, frantically reaching for one of the discarded blankets, while the other occupant of mass had flown across the room, wrapping a blanket around himself. Standing there, clenching his fists at his sides, he hadn’t known what to do, how to react to what he had just seen.

“Rumford!” Milah had shouted, clambering to her feet, tightly clutching the edges of the blanket. “What the hell are you doing here!”

“What am I…? What am I doing here?!” Rumford had declared loudly, gesturing uncontrollably with his hands.

Milah had glared at him. “You’ve got no right to be here! Get out!”

“I’m sorry, I thought I was the fricking Earl of the Frontlands and owned this fricking estate!” He had thrown back at her, holding his arms out wide.

“Hey, mate.” An Irish accent crooned at Rumford. “No need to swear in front of the lady.”

Slowly Rumford had levelled his gaze on the man, standing casually, blanket wrapped around his waist, leaning against the wall of the cottage. He had looked to be about the same age as Rumford. The man was devilishly handsome. There was no denying that, but that didn’t stop Rumford from wanting to punch the man’s face in, especially with that toothy smile.

“The only thing that makes her a lady right now, is her title! Her behaviour is more of a whore!” Rumford had stated coldly and had pointed a finger at the man. “You are a fricking shit-sack!”

“That’s not very gentlemanly of you.” The man had baited him, he had known it at the time, but being so angry at the time, he had acted instead of thinking.

Rumford had grabbed the half-drunk bottle of wine from the table, thrown it at the man, hitting the wall next to him, exploding the bottle into glass shards and splashing wine onto the wall and floor. The other man had been startled. Using it to his advantage, Rumford had launched himself at the man, grabbing him by the throat to throw a punch at him. They had fought, throwing fists and kneeing each other, falling into a heap on the floor. Milah had screamed at him to get off her precious lover, jumping onto his back, wrapping her arms around Rumford’s throat to choke him. She couldn’t get him off of her lover and her shouts had fallen on deaf ears as the pair of them had fought.

“Stop it!” She had exclaimed and had changed tactics, and began hitting Rumford in the back of the head.

Rolling to knock her off, she had fallen to the floor, but had kept fighting with him, tugging hard at his soaked cloak to pull him off her lover. She had randomly kicked him in his ribs, giving her lover the distraction he had needed, to hit Rumford squarely in the face. He had slumped to the floor with a groan and blacked out.

Waking up in the early hours of the morning, Rumford hadn’t known where he was when he awoke, but had found himself alone in the cottage and his horse gone. They had searched for her, riding from inn to inn, village to village, but there’d been no sign of them. Rumford had relented on finding her himself and had paid men to find her, prioritising his time to Neal. The scandal was kept hushed. Nobody outside of the household knew anything. To the outside world, she was visiting an acquaintance, no name of the acquaintance was ever given and nobody had questioned it. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for a lady to go touring round her acquaintances. Rumford had feigned ignorance to anyone who had asked, informing them he was waiting to receive a letter from her.

The day, they brought her home, in a box, on the back of the cart, was the most heart wrenching day of his life. Killian Jones, privateer, had taken her to his ship, promising to show her the world. What they hadn’t expected, was the men, who Rumford had paid, would find them and try to bring her back. If he had been there, he would’ve just let her go, so her death wouldn’t have been on his conscience, but he wasn’t the one who had picked up the pistol. Mr Jones had decided to go down in a blaze of glory, because ‘ _if I can’t have her, no one will_ ’. Milah had been caught in the crossfire, protecting her lover, shot in the heart with a pistol. 

Rumford would’ve liked to say, it was her, which had made that day so unbearable. But it wasn’t. No, it had been their son. The three-year-old, who had stood on the step with him, tightly clasping his father’s hand, when they had brought her home. The little boy asked him, when his mummy was coming home, unable to comprehend his mummy was in the wooden box, they had lowered into the ground. The young boy, who screamed in the middle of the night, crying out for his mother at the age of seven. Then he would realise his mummy wasn’t coming, like she hadn’t for the last four years of his life, setting the boy off into more tears. At the age of twelve, Neal no longer asked for his mother.

The whole experience with his late wife had left a sour taste in his mouth to the prospect of taking another wife. Rumford may now have a choice as to who he would marry, but it didn’t mean he wanted to open himself to being hurt like that again. Inviting someone into his home, a stranger, to share his life with them, share his son with them, for them to hurt them with their own selfish needs. He wouldn’t do it, which was why remarrying had never entered his mind.

Briefly, Rumford turned his head to look at Jefferson, who was staring off in front of them, as they approached the brow of the hill, leading to the short path down to Lord French’s estate. Adjusting the hold of his horse’s reins, he shifted his position in his saddle, glancing down to the reins between his hands. If he was honest, Rumford was jealous to hear Jefferson had shared tea with Lady French yesterday, while he had been out completing his business. A chance to sit and chat with her, to cunningly ask her his questions, to learn what made the Lady happy, what excited her, would be a glorious honour. To sit with her and discover her mind was as beautiful as her face, could complete his fantasy of the perfect woman. It would also give him the time to determine whether her wit was sharp enough to engage with his own.

“She doesn’t like him, by the way.” Jefferson asserted from nowhere.

Rumford slanted himself to look at Jefferson, whilst their horses traversed from the road onto the gravelled area in front of the manor. “Excuse me?”

Jefferson nodded and threw his hand towards the house. “The Baron, she doesn’t like him.”

“Can’t say that I blame her.” He grumbled, straightening on his horse.

“Lord French is eager for the union, but she isn’t.” Jefferson said with a shrug of his right shoulder.

“She has her right to refuse.” Rumford commented, tugging on the reins of his horse to slow it down, whilst they entered the bricked courtyard at the side of the manor.

Jefferson nodded, following Rumford’s horse. “That she does.”

Slowly trotting around the corner of the outbuildings, Rumford pulled to a stop outside of the stables and hopped down from his horse, landing at the side of his horse, a steadying hand on the back of the horse. Opening the flap of the satchel, secured to the back of the horse, Rumford retrieved the newspaper Jefferson had bought him, while Jefferson came to halt close beside Rumford.

“Ah,” The Stablemaster came out of the stables to greet them. “Have they been well behaved for you, M’ Lords?” He asked, claiming the reins of both horses.

“Very well behaved.” Rumford told him, stroking a hand over the front shoulder of the horse.

Jefferson dropped with an ‘oof’ and said. “Yes, very good.”

The Stablemaster inquired. “Will you be requiring horses tomorrow, M’ Lords?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.” Rumford answered, while Jefferson retrieved the chocolates and the whiskey he had bought for their hosts, from the satchel on his horse.

“M’ Lords.” The Stablemaster bowed his head to them as he backed away, leading the horse into the stable with him. 

Clutching the box of chocolates to his chest, the bottle of whiskey held in his hand, Jefferson wiped down the front of his clothing, brushing off the dust and dirt. Rumford tucked his newspaper under his left arm and started towards the manor with Jefferson falling into step beside him. He avoided looking in Jefferson’s direction, averting his gaze, so Jefferson couldn’t catch his eye. They’ve played this game many times in the decades they’ve known each other. Jefferson always had a knack, when he was socialising to get information out of people, which was always useful to Rumford, when he was conducting business. His friend was good at reading people, yet it was the most annoying trait of his friend, when he used this ability on Rumford. What surprised him was how Jefferson had even seen any hint of Rumford’s interest in Lady French. He had been careful with his glances, minimising the amount of time and concealing his glimpses behind hooded eyes. He hadn’t passed comment about her appearance or inquired too much about her, feigning disinterest when her father or the Baron spoke about her, or she was in the room, keeping himself at a safe distance across the room. The only evening, he had allowed himself to indulge, was when she had been playing the piano for them, but to anyone else he would’ve looked to be appreciating her playing, not the delicate slope of her neck… the softness of her skin… the smell of violets and lavender… Rumford quickly dispersed his thoughts, catching Jefferson in the corner of his eye, knowingly smiling at him.

Without knocking, Rumford opened the front door to the manor, startling the frontman on the other side of the door, and traipsed into the house with Jefferson close behind him. The young footman composed himself and bowed his head to them. Giving the young footman a curt nod of his head, Rumford stopped in the foyer, snatching the folded paper from under his arm, and looked around, wafting the newspaper through the air, lost for something to do.

“Fancy a brandy?” Jefferson waved in the direction of the drawing room. “Bound to be in time for another of the Baron’s hunting stories.”

“No.” Rumford shook his head. “No, I think I’m going to find myself a quiet nook and read my paper.” He gestured with the folded newspaper in a random direction.

Jefferson showed him a small smile. “As you wish.”

Going to take a step in the opposite direction to Jefferson, Rumford halted, hearing Jefferson say one word. “You.”

“Excuse me?” Rumford turned his head to face Jefferson, who had continued to walk away.

Knitting his brow, Rumford wasn’t clear as to Jefferson’s meaning, when he had said ‘ _You’_. He took a step, leaning to see Jefferson pass the banister, but Jefferson had already reached the drawing room doorway and walked through it, leaving Rumford with just that one word. Settling his weight evenly between his feet, he looked down at the newspaper in his hands, deepening his frown, whilst repeating the word ‘ _You_ ’ in his head. What was that supposed to mean? ‘ _Me, what?’_ , he thought, turning his head to look in another direction, hoping he might get some clarity from another perspective. Was Jefferson toying with him, like he did at times, or was he referring to their earlier conversation? Casting his gaze back towards the drawing room, he pondered about joining Jefferson, only so he could needle his friend for an explanation.

‘ _What the frick does ‘you’ mean anyway?’_ , Rumford contemplated, swinging himself round to head towards the library.


End file.
